


With Benefits

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Blindfolds, Double Penetration, Energy Field Sex, Exhibitionism, For Science!, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Kink Meme, M/M, Moresomes, Multi, Optimus Love, Oral, Orgy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Plug and Play, Restraints, Sex Toys, Spark Sex, Sticky, Tactile, Tentacles/Data Cables, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, sex chair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus is about to have a very good day, he just doesn't know it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up Call

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this kinkmeme prompt, but since I felt I didn't fulfill the strictures of it, I was only inspired by it.  
>  _Well, I keep seeing this around (image is totally sfw) http://i.imgur.com/vmXkI.png_  
>  _And now I just want to see a surprised Optimus waking up surrounded by the harem of your choice (seekers, minibots, datsuns, command staff...) because he smells/looks/feels/whatevers fantastic tonight/left his charisma on and they want cuddles... and overloads._  
>  _No noncon please, this makes bots drawn to OP but they are perfectly capable of saying no to smexing, and Op is probably surprised but willing after the shock wears off (or after a little bit of persuasion.)_  
>  _I'm open to just about any kinks, but no humiliation, scat/watersports or extreme painplay please._  
>  _tl;dr - OP forgot to turn off his swag, and woke up covered in bitches._

**Part One - Wake Up Call**  
Characters: OptimusxJazzxMIragexBumblebee  
Warnings: foursome, light restraint, voyeurism, sticky  
  
Optimus emerges from recharge to intense pleasure and warmth suffusing his systems in a pulsing wave. His optics online to find Jazz perched above him, his valve open and poised over Optimus' spike, dripping lubricant down his thighs and onto Optimus' array. He slowly sinks down, even as Optimus watches, valve encasing the Prime's spike in slick, tight heat until he bottoms out, the sensor-dense head of Optimus' spike nudging the innermost ceiling node of Jazz's valve.  
  
“Morning, boss,” his third in command drawls with a wicked smirk and a roll of his hips that's probably illegal in several solar systems.  
  
Optimus moans and bucks up into Jazz, wishing he could be more surprised. But it's hardly the first time he's woken up with his third in command straddling him. He tries to reach down, grab Jazz's hips to match their rhythms, but finds that he can't.  
  
What...?  
  
“Good morning, sir.”  
  
Above him, Mirage leans over his helm, expression upside down but no less mild and amused. His smile is warm and teasing as he leans down, pressing an inverted kiss to Optimus' face mask.  
  
“Morning,” Optimus rumbles, sliding his mask aside.  
  
But Mirage's lips are already retreating, and Optimus can't see where until heat and moisture envelop one of his antenna. Optimus makes a sound that should probably be classified as a whimper, a shudder wracking his frame, doubled when Jazz circles his hips, valve calipers clutching at Optimus' spike in a rhythmic wave from base to tip.  
  
They're trying to drive him crazy. That's all he can assume.  
  
Until fingers tease the rim of his valve, tracing over and over the sensitive seam. His hips jerk, lubricant pooling behind the cover. Only it can't be Jazz circling him with deft touches, mapping the contours of the cover. Because Jazz's hands are too busy both working his own spike with determined fervor and playing with the metal lines of Optimus' grill.  
  
“Who...?”  
  
A soft laugh echoes in the room before Bumblebee's face appears to the left of Jazz's hips. “Morning, Optimus,” he says, fingers pressing lightly on his valve cover, pressing against metal softened by rising heat. “Going to open for me, sir?”  
  
His panel snaps open before Optimus gives it a firm decision.  
  
“Thought so,” Jazz says with a laugh and a squeeze of his valve.  
  
Two blunt, minibot fingers push into Optimus' valve and he hitches a ventilation, lubricant seeping out, splashing onto the berth and Bumblebee's hand.  
  
“Nngh,” he says, brought low by the pleasure.  
  
Mirage's fingers squeeze his wrists, slim digits slipping between armor plates, caressing wires and cables beneath. His mouth slides down, over Optimus' antenna, drawing charge with his glossa.  
  
“M-Mirage...?”  
  
Jazz grins, visor brightening. “Oh, don't you worry about him, boss bot. He likes to watch.”  
  
“Spies generally do,” Mirage remarks dryly.  
  
Optimus' engine rumbles his approval, especially when Bumblebee adds a third and fourth finger, his smaller digits making for a fine stretch. Optimus opens his thighs wider, invitation extended, and gasps when Bumblebe's fingers trace circles on the sensory nodes at the aperture of his valve.  
  
“He likes that, Bee,” Jazz comments, the slick sound of his hand on his spike filling the room. “I can feel it.” His grins turns positively wicked.  
  
Bumblebee's fingers disappear and Optimus makes a noise of protest, until hands smooth down his thighs, raising prickles of charge. Metal slides against metals, warm as Bumblebee moves between his thighs, engine a soft purr. Optimus feels the blunt head of a spike nose at his valve, lubricant-wet tip tracing the rim.  
  
“Do you mind if I...?”  
  
“Please,” Optimus groans, helm pushing toward Mirage's lips, hips canting with invitation as Jazz pauses his eager dance to give Bumblebee room to maneuver.  
  
He doesn't have to ask twice. He can feel Bumblebee between his legs, though he can't see the minibot, and then there's the sweet, slick glide of a spike into his valve, nodes sparking to life one after another.  
  
Optimus shudders, hips jerking up and down, caught between two pleasures. All the more when Mirage continues his oral assault on Optimus' antenna, one and then the other, back and forth, charge spitting and hissing across them. Optimus' fingers draw in and out of fists, but Mirage is resting his entire weight, keeping him from lifting his arms.  
  
“And now that we're all set,” Jazz says, bracing his hands on Optimus' abdominal plating, glossa flicking across his lips. “We can get this show on the road. Ready, Bee?”  
  
“More than,” the scout breathes, his hands sliding down Optimus' thighs, dipping between the bare gaps in his leg plating, teasing the cables beneath.  
  
“Got your back, boss,” Mirage purrs, lips sliding down, teasing Optimus' audial.  
  
He groans, stripped of words, writhing beneath the weight of his Special Ops team. Pleasure is an inviting fire in his valve and he's desperate for them to do something, anything to ease the ache.  
  
“Good,” Jazz says, rising up, Optimus' spike slipping from his valve with a dribble of lubricant that Optimus' optics track with a ridiculous intensity. Only the rounded head of his spike remains in that welcoming heat, twitching in anticipation of its full return. “All right, boys. Let's move.”  
  
And they do, by Primus, they do.  
  
Optimus whimpers, and yes, he's calling it now, as Jazz sinks down as Bumblebee sinks in, igniting all of the sensors in his valve and spike at once. And Mirage is no less busy, fingers and glossa making short work of every sensitive node on Optimus' helm.  
  
His hips buck, pushing his spike into Jazz's valve, calipers cycling and clenching in irregular rhythm, drawing out the charge. His own valve squeezes down on Bumblebee's spike, enjoying the catch of the scout's blunt nubs, charge crackling between them.  
  
“Primus,” Bumblebee moans. “Feels so good.”  
  
Jazz's fingers rap a nonsense rhythm across Optimus' abdominal plating. “Boss has got the stuff,” he agrees, visor lit up with pleasure. His hips surge and sink, clutching at Optimus' spike with each roll of his pelvis.  
  
Optimus' heels scrape the berth, legs splayed wide for Bumblebee between them, pushing relentlessly into his valve, sensor nodes firing burst after burst of pleasure. His spike is encased in a wet, clasping warmth, Jazz's hips performing an erotic dance that Optimus enjoys watching and feeling.  
  
Lips cover his from above, Mirage's glossa flicking over his own, tasting faintly of those energon goodies the noble likes to nibble all the time. His denta nip Optimus' lips in tiny pricks of pleasure-pain and Optimus moans, hips working an unsteady rhythm, caught between Jazz's valve and Bumblebee's spike.  
  
Optimus shudders, overload sweeping through his systems and sending charge dancing across his circuits. He jerks, Jazz bouncing on his spike with a little moan, as transfluid spurts into Jazz's valve.  
  
“Optimus!” Bumblebee shouts and Optimus can't see the scout but he feels the wash of transfluid in his valve, warm and tingling over his excited nodes, dragging another, sharper overload from his systems.  
  
He hears Jazz cry out from a distance, feels the restless cycling of his third in command's valve, the hot and eager press of Mirage's energy field, and the soft petting of Bumblebee's hands, but then a third overload strikes him hard and fast and Optimus' world flashes to dark.  
  
Optimus reboots thirty minutes later, relaxed and sated, but clean and alone. He gives himself a moment to process, optics cycling, memory returning. His shift will begin soon, though it's a faint disappointment that none of his Autobots had lingered for a snuggle.  
  
He rolls off the berth onto his pedes, rubbing a hand down his face, half-expecting that it was all just some wonderful recharge-induced dream. Until he spies the datapad on his berthside table.  
  
He picks it up, a message flashing onscreen. _Thanks for the show_ , it says, and it's signed Mirage. There's a vid-file attached and curiosity demands that he watch it.  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
Not a dream. And he has the video to prove it.  
  


***


	2. Rub a Dub Dub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two - Rub a Dub Dub  
> Characters: OptimusxSmokescreenxBluestreak  
> Enticements: oral, dirty talk, shower smut, sticky
> 
> In which Bluestreak is irresistible, Smokescreen goads, and Optimus' good day continues.

Jazz and his team had been thorough, but not quite enough. A few spatters of lubricant, a paint streak or two, and Optimus' first destination upon leaving his quarters is the nearest washracks. Mysteriously enough, his private racks are completely devoid of soap, rags, and drying cloths.   
  
Optimus suspects a certain saboteur is to blame though why Jazz would steal all of his cleaning supplies makes absolutely no sense.  
  
In a deviation from the norm, the corridors of the Ark are empty and quiet. Usually, Optimus comes across one, if not two of his Autobots coming from or heading to their shift. Curious. Perhaps one of Sideswipe's impromptu parties had begun late last night and most mechs are in the recovery phase? It wouldn't be the first time.   
  
The washracks, however, are not as empty as the halls, Optimus is pleased to discover. These racks are smaller than some of the others, located as they are on the far end of the Ark, and only have room for half a dozen mechs. Present are Smokescreen and Bluestreak, looking to be on the tail end of their daily ablutions.   
  
“Good morning, Prime,” says Smokescreen as he turns to identify the new arrival.   
  
Bluestreak's doorwings give a little cheerful wiggle that Optimus finds hopelessly endearing. “Recharge well?” the sniper asks, and because it is Bluestreak, he continues with, “You look like you did. Good thing, too. I heard Ratchet muttering the other day and--”  
  
“Blue,” Smokescreen interrupts with a smile and an affectionate note to his voice.   
  
Bluestreak giggles. “Right. Shutting up now!” He beams at Optimus, sweeping his drying cloth over the last of the droplets on his thighs.   
  
Optimus finds a smile taking over his own lips. Bluestreak is too adorable for his own good. “Good morning to both of you as well. And yes, Bluestreak, I did have a good recharge.”   
  
“Glad to hear it.” Bluestreak beams, stepping aside for Optimus to take his place should he so choose. “Not that I'm protesting but don't you have private racks?”   
  
“I seem to have misplaced my supplies,” Optimus explains with a soft chuckle, stepping into the empty stall, one larger for intentional sharing. “All of them.”   
  
Smokescreen laughs, flicking off his sprayer, water dripping from his frame. “Sideswipe strikes again.”   
  
“Perhaps.” Optimus turns on the water, relaxing as it sheets across the front of his frame in warm, sudsy rivulets.   
  
“Need some help?” Bluestreak asks, leaning around him to wave a scrub brush in front of him. “I'm good at it. Good enough that Sunstreaker lets me help him and you know how particular he is.” Big blue optics look up at Optimus with the most pleading, hopeful expression he has ever seen.   
  
Resistance is futile. Optimus never stood a chance.   
  
“I am running behind,” he admits, tilting his frame so that Bluestreak can edge into the stall in front of him, wielding the scrub brush.   
  
Bluestreak grins, doorwings giving another happy jiggle. “Then I'll help you catch up.” He considers Optimus' frame with a critical optic before the brush makes it's first mark on Optimus' right shoulder.   
  
“And you know what they say,” Smokescreen says from behind Optimus. “Many hands make light work.” The soft brush of another scrubber on his back announces Smokescreen's intentions.   
  
“You have my thanks,” Optimus says, lifting his arms at Bluestreak's urging so that the sniper can get every nook and cranny.   
  
Smokescreen's engine rumbles. “It's nice to be spoiled every once in a while,” he says, brush sweeping across Optimus' back and over his aft before he tackles Optimus' legs. “Don't you think?”  
  
Optimus nods his agreement, the gentle ministrations of his Autobots causing a soft ripple of pleasure to spread through his systems. The steady strokes of the brush are igniting his haptic sensors one by one, warmth curling in his tanks.   
  
“Nothing gets you relaxed like a good scrub,” Bluestreak says, his cheerful voice filling the racks. “The feel of the suds on your plating. The warm water as it seeps onto your cables. Though the wax and polish afterward can feel just as good.” His engine gives a telling rev.   
  
Smokescreen flicks some soap against Optimus' backstrut, his vocals dropping into a resonating purr. “You're looking a little warm, boss bot,” he says, and a finger drags down Optimus' backstrut in such a way that pleasure coils low and tight in his abdomen.   
  
His groan echoes in the washracks.   
  
“That was a good sound,” Bluestreak observes, and he tosses the brush over his shoulder, where it clatters against the wall and to the ground. “Do you mind if we help bring out a few others?”   
  
Optimus looks down at the shorter mech, cycling his optics. “I beg your pardon?”   
  
Smokescreen laughs, his servos resting on Optimus' hips from behind, sliding slick over his plating thanks to the soap. “I'm sensing some charge building,” he purrs, fingers slipping between gaps, teasing over cables already primed in the wake of teasing bubbles. “And since we're here to help, figure we could take care of that, too.”   
  
Optimus lowers his arms. “I don't--”  
  
“Oh, please?” Bluestreak says, latching onto one of Optimus' arms, his vents throwing heat into the confined space of the stall. “How can we call this a relaxing bath if you walk out of here all tense and charged up?” He cycles his optics, somehow making them bigger and brighter and irresistible.  
  
Smokescreen chuckles, ex-venting a burst of air against Optimus' backstrut. “Come on, boss. Not every day you get an offer from motormouth here. There's a reason we all put up with him.”   
  
“Hey!” Bluestreak says, doorwings shooting upward, a pout taking over his lips. “That's not the reason.” He fidgets in place and looks up at Optimus with, dare he say it, a coy tilt of his helm. “Well, not the _only_ reason anyway.”   
  
Optimus is half-afraid to ask. Until Smokescreen presses against his back, engine rumbling in a pleasant manner, and one hand reaches around, caressing Optimus' spike housing. The heat behind his panel bursts into an inferno, spike straining against his control.   
  
This is an unexpected, pleasant surprise.   
  
“Aren't you curious?” Smokescreen asks, his fingers tracing the seams of Optimus' spike housing, rubbing a constant rhythm over the thin plating. “Don't you want to relieve some of that tension?”   
  
Bluestreak pulls Optimus' hand up to his mouth and Optimus watches, with hitched ventilations, as the gunner nips at the tip of his forefinger before drawing it past his lips. His glossa flicks over the sensitive digit, alighting his net in a wave of fire.   
  
Optimus' spike pops free with a snap of metal shunting aside. Primus, he's running on a hair trigger today.   
  
“I think that's permission, Blue,” says Smokescreen, fingers instantly seeking out and stroking Optimus' spike in one long, steady pull.   
  
“I think so, too,” replies Bluestreak and Optimus watches with labored ventilations as the gunner drops to his knees, putting his lips at perfect level with Optimus' spike.   
  
Any protest Optimus might have mustered dies a staticky death when Bluestreak's hands smooth up his thigh plating and he leans forward, exhaling a burst of wet heat across the tip of Optimus' spike. Pre-transfluid wells at the tip, the head of his spike bobbing eagerly toward Bluestreak's mouth.   
  
“Definitely permission,” Smokescreen purrs and his hands are a strut-tingling distraction as he guides Optimus' spike to Bluestreak's lips.   
  
Anticipation turns his innards to liquid fire. Optimus' hips judder at the first brush of soft metal against the sensor lined tip, and his vent escapes in a harsh whoosh at the testing swipe of Bluestreak's glossa.   
  
He groans, hands fisting at his sides, forcing himself to be still. No one likes a spike up the olfactory sensor or in the optic. But the urge to thrust, to bury himself in Bluestreak's willing mouth, is all consuming.   
  
“He's such a slagging tease, isn't he?” Smokescreen murmurs, grinding his hips in a slow, resonating push against Optimus' aft. “But oh so good at what he does.”   
  
Optimus' engine gives a throaty rumble, plating trembling, his optics locked on the sight below. Bluestreak's mouth opening, glossa wetting his lips before they encircle the head of Optimus' spike, glossa flicking out over the tip, nudging against the transfluid channel, and then laving around the crown.   
  
“Primus,” Optimus moans, frame sagging.   
  
Bluestreak's fingers knead a soft rhythm against his thighs while Smokescreen's fingers stroke the base of Optimus' spike, directing each minute thrust of his hips.   
  
“Watch him,” Smokescreen says, vocals getting husky, his own frame heating. “He likes it when you watch him. He likes looking up into your optics as you slide into his mouth.”   
  
Bluestreak makes a sound, a hint of a moan, and it vibrates around Optimus' shaft, igniting the pleasure in his array. He shudders from helm to pede, optics locked on Bluestreak, watching his spike sink into Bluestreak's welcoming mouth, feeling the flick-flick-pull of Bluestreak's glossa.   
  
Hips shifting restlessly, Optimus' hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. His spike tingles from base to tip, charge building to a fine pressure, Bluestreak's mouth working up and down, taking him deeper and deeper with each pull. He can feel Bluestreak's intakes working at the deepest suck, and the parting flick of Bluestreak's glossa at the furthest withdraw. Oral lubricants trickle out of the corners of Bluestreak's mouth, the slick sounds of his slurps echoing in the washracks.   
  
“Go ahead,” Smokescreen murmurs, like a tempting devil of some kind. “Put your hands on his helm. He likes to be guided. He wants to know how you like it.”   
  
Optimus raises his hands before Smokescreen finishes, only to hesitate. The pleasure is driving him to great heights and he worries that he won't be able to... hold back.   
  
“I couldn't,” he gasps, though he really wants to. He would never forgive himself if he damaged that lovely chevron.   
  
“His shoulders then,” Smokescreen continues to coax. “They're sturdy enough.”   
  
Rightly so, Optimus imagines, if they've been crafted to withstand the recoil of those massive cannons.   
  
He obeys, resting his hands on Bluestreak's shoulders, thumbs brushing the sensitive cables in Bluestreak's neck. The gunner shivers, doorwings flicking back and forth, and his efforts on Optimus' spike double in earnest.   
  
Optimus moans, spike twitching, throbbing with need. Bluestreak's mouth is hot and wet, glossa a maddening stroke down the length of his shaft. His sensornet fires with bursts of pleasure, his hips rocking of their own accord into the welcoming mouth.   
  
He looks down, watching himself disappear into Bluestreak's mouth, emerge with the glisten of oral lubricants that also shine on Bluestreak's lips, and then vanish into the warmth again. Restraint buckles within him, Optimus gasping out a curse that echoes in the racks.   
  
“Bluestreak,” he moans, feeling it's only polite that he should warn the gunner. “I'm going to... you might want to...”   
  
Smokescreen chuckles, hot and lusty against Optimus' backstrut. “Don't worry. He likes to swallow. So make sure you give him every last drop.”   
  
Bluestreak's actions agree with Smokescreen's words, his mouth working with greater fervor. Up, down, up, down, glossa flicking across the sensor-laden head, probing into the channel as though demanding the first burst of transfluid, Smokescreen's fingers stroking a rhythm on the base of Optimus' spike.   
  
Pleasure builds, winding within Optimus like a tight coil. His fingers clutch at Bluestreak's shoulders, charge racing down his backstrut. Bluestreak sucks him down, lips brushing Smokescreen's fingers, the tip of Optimus' spike hitting the back of the gunner's intake and he shouts, hips surging forward.   
  
Overload hits him like a bolt of lightning, Optimus' spike spasming as he spills into Bluestreak's mouth, shooting spurt after spurt of liquid heat down Bluestreak's intake. He can feel Bluestreak's cables flexing as he swallows each drop, a low purr in his vocalizer vibrating over Optimus' sensitive length.   
  
Shivers ripple across Optimus' plating. He sags a little, his frame feeling warm and light, tingling in the aftermath of his overload. He lets go of Bluestreak's shoulders, watching as the gunner draws back, a satisfied smile on his face.  
  
“Good?” he asks, one finger swiping over his lips, catching a stray bead of transfluid.   
  
“More than,” Optimus says with utter honesty. He cycles a ventilation and helps Bluestreak climb to his pedes. “Thank you.”   
  
Smokescreen laughs, hands sliding over Optimus' hips as he withdraws. “It was his pleasure. Well, mine, too.” He circles around Optimus, leaning an arm on Bluestreak's shoulder.  
  
“Wouldn't mind doing it again, either,” Bluestreak says, grabbing Optimus' hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. “Anytime. Anyplace. Just say the word, Prime. I'll be there.”   
  
That's... very tempting.   
  
“Anyway,” Smokescreen says loudly. “We'll just let you get cleaned up. Have a good day, sir. Come on, Blue. We got work to do.”   
  
“Aww,” the gunner says with a well-formed pout. “I was hoping for round two.”   
  
Smokescreen grins, tugging on his frame-brother's arm. “We can take care of that ourselves. Our turn's up.”   
  
Turn?  
  
“If you say so,” Bluestreak says with a sigh. “Have a good day, Prime.”   
  
“Yes, of course,” Optimus replies and he watches them go, no less perplexed than he was when he first stepped into the racks.   
  
Optimus reaches for a towel and that's when he gets a message ping. Curious, he pulls out his personal datapad and opens the new message, only to rev his engine in surprise. It's another video from Mirage and the timestamp on it tells Optimus all he needs to know about the contents.   
  
His Autobots sure are acting strange today.   
  


***


	3. Hand All Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three - Hands All Over  
> Characters: OptimusxSunstreakerxTracks  
> Enticements: Tactile, Energy Fields, seductive talk

Optimus dries himself off in record time, mutters when he glances at his chronometer and rushes out the door.   
  
It's only vorns upon vorns of battle-honed reflexes and maybe a bit of Matrix upgrade too that keeps him from colliding with two other mechs, lying in wait just outside the door.   
  
Optimus performs an artful roll of his frame, narrowly avoids trampling Tracks, and jumps back to keep himself from scratching Sunstreaker. It's a move that Ironhide would be proud of.   
  
“Good morning, Prime,” Tracks says, expression pleasant and not at all bothered by the near-collision.   
  
“You look terrible,” Sunstreaker says, optics giving Optimus a long and in-depth once-over, measuring and obviously finding something of lack.   
  
Tracks sighs, rubbing his faceplate.   
  
Sunstreaker puffs up like a peacock. “Well, it's true,” he snaps and gestures toward Optimus absently. “Look at his finish. It's atrocious.”   
  
There's a moment where Tracks obeys, his optics flicking over Optimus from helm to pede. “Well, Sunstreaker does have a point, sir.”   
  
“Of course I do!” Sunstreaker huffs, planting his hands on his hips. “Next battle, the Decepticons are just going to laugh at us.” He scowls. “At least Megatron is always perfect. He's never scraped up and dull.”   
  
“That's because Megatron treats his mechs like slag,” Tracks retorts with a long-suffering look.  
  
Sunstreaker folds his arms over his chestplate. “It's still embarrassing,” he insists and shifts his attention to Optimus. “You have to let me do something about it.”   
  
Tracks inclines his helm.”He's right. And well, between the both of us, we could have you done in record time.”   
  
Optimus then finds himself pinned by their stares, both mechs looking at him expectantly. Oh. Is he expected to answer them? For a moment there, he thought they were too involved in their marital bickering.   
  
“That's generous of you,” Optimus says, careful with his words because both of them have the tendency to be easily offended. “But I fear I am already running behind schedule and simply don't have the time.”   
  
The two mechs exchange glances, Tracks' expression echoing confusion.   
  
“But your shift doesn't start for an hour,” Sunstreaker says, optical ridges drawing low.   
  
What?  
  
Optimus stares at them, and then consults his schedule. By Primus, Sunstreaker is right. But he could have sworn...   
  
This must be Jazz's fault. He and his team had been an effective distraction this morning and then Bluestreak and Smokescreen had only exacerbated the effects.   
  
“Plenty of time,” Tracks says and it's Bluestreak all over again, Optimus unable to find a reason to say no and a selfish part of him eager to leap on the opportunity.   
  
After all, it's not every day just anyone is offered a wax and polish from the two mechs on the Ark who are the best at it.   
  
“Very well,” Optimus acquiesces. “Do your worst, or shall I say, best.”   
  
Tracks grins, gesturing over his shoulder. “Great. My quarters are closer.”   
  
“But mine have the better supplies,” Sunstreaker retorts and tilts his helm the opposite direction.   
  
“And mine is nearer to the rec room,” Tracks insists, stepping closer to Sunstreaker, something off in his tone.   
  
A moment passes.   
  
“Right,” Sunstreaker says and looks up at Optimus. “Tracks' supplies are adequate enough. They'll do.”   
  
Optimus feels as though he's missed a vital part of the conversation. Nevertheless, he follows along as his Autobots precede him down the hallway.   
  
They bicker over everything, Optimus notices fondly.   
  
Paint composition. Filler nanites. Cloth materials. Wax blends.   
  
Optimus doesn't pretend to understand half of it. He uses stock cleanser, giant beach towels, and the cheap polish the Autobots order in bulk. He considers it adequate enough but not in the optics of Tracks and Sunstreaker.   
  
According to them, said polish shouldn't be used on a toaster much less a Cybertronian.   
  
Why on Earth anyone would polish a toaster is beyond Optimus' understanding.   
  
Nevertheless, he submits to Tracks and Sunstreaker as they polish him to perfection. The rub of the soft cloths and the sweet smell of the wax seem to seep into Optimus' plating, relaxing him to his core. He finds himself sinking into the comfort of the berth, kinked cables unwinding and tension bleeding out of his hydraulics.   
  
A soft sigh of pleasure escapes him. His plating loosens, lifting away from his substructure, air sifting in through the gaps and cooling him below. It, too, is rather nice. Optimus can't remember the last time he allowed himself to indulge like this.   
  
Lazy warmth thrums through Optimus' system. He can almost slip into recharge just like this, their steady, talented servos gliding over his plating.   
  
He has to admit that Tracks and Sunstreaker are both talented and efficient. They strip away his old layers, re-paint him, and wax him to a gleaming finish in record time. He even has some to spare before his shift starts.   
  
“Thank you,” Optimus says as he admires himself in the mirror, almost not recognizing the mech reflected back at him. “You've done a great job.”   
  
Sunstreaker huffs, though it's only a mild offense. “Of course.”   
  
“And we're not done yet,” Tracks says, standing on Optimus' other side, opposite from Sunstreaker.   
  
Optimus tilts his helm, unable to remember what they might have missed. “No?”   
  
“No,” Tracks confirms and gives Optimus a once over. “We missed a spot right here.” He reaches out, fingers brushing a gap in Optimus' armor, sliding between the seams to a sensitive bundle of cables beneath.   
  
A lance of pleasure bursts outward from the light touch, Optimus' systems humming with heat.   
  
“It looks fine to me,” Optimus says.   
  
“No, I think he's right,” Sunstreaker says, and gives his own critical look. “I think you could use a bit more hands-on work.” His own fingers brush over Optimus' back, tracing the length of his backstrut.   
  
Tingles follow in the wake of Sunstreaker's fingers. Optimus fights a shiver and the rising current of arousal in his systems.   
  
“I am not certain further polishing is what you intend,” Optimus says, though his pedes stay rooted in place. He's not exactly running from the room, now is he?   
  
“Were we that obvious?” Tracks says, and his vocals drop several registers, into a resonating purr that seems to reverberate straight through Optimus' armor to his spark. Both hands flatten over Optimus' abdominal armor, sliding up in a slow, purring rasp against the thick metal.   
  
He shivers again, pleasure a delicate and intriguing dance through his systems. “I fear that I haven't the time for whatever you might be planning, no matter how pleasurable the pursuit,” Optimus says and no, he can't hide the regret in his field.   
  
“Surely you have a few minutes,” Sunstreaker supposes, his vocals matching Tracks resonation for resonation, only this time hitting Optimus' spark from behind. His hands follow the same track against Optimus' back plating as Tracks from the front.   
  
How they are managing to work in tandem, Optimus cannot guess. But he can't deny that he is enjoying it.   
  
Warmth hums a soft note through his systems, circuits heating with charge that winds a lazy path from helm to pede. He is already nice and relaxed from the polish and, he notices, reasonably aroused. How had he not noticed?  
  
Tracks' fingers dance erotic paths in and out of the seams of Optimus' plating, long reach enabling him to caress the sensitized wires and cables beneath. “Every good polish deserves a happy ending.”   
  
“A really happy ending,” Sunstreaker adds with a note of amusement mixed lightly into the bursts of smug satisfaction. He moves closer, heated ex-vents pushing between the gaps in Optimus' back plating and tickling the sensors beneath.   
  
Arousal spills heavier through Optimus' systems, pleasure sweeping across his sensor net in a languid wave. His knees give an embarrassing wobble and his hands land on Tracks' shoulders for balance, feeling smooth armor beneath his haptic sensors.   
  
“You deserve it,” Tracks murmurs, optics darkening to an aroused hue, his energy field rising with tangible curls of desire.   
  
“You work hard,” Sunstreaker echoes, fingers knowledgeable and sure as they trek upward, skipping to Optimus' arms, and teasing at the base of his alt-mode smokestacks before sliding up the length of them.   
  
Pleasure surges in the wake of Sunstreaker's deft touch. Optimus' spark gives a hard throb, heat circling faster and faster through his circuits.   
  
“Every one should be spoiled once in a while, yes?” Tracks purrs, fingers dragging in a tap-tap-tap staccato up the slats of Optimus' grill. Each little tap sends a jolt through Optimus, charge dancing out from his substructure, snapping on empty air. His hands draw down on Tracks' shoulder, kneading the metal carefully.   
  
“And touching you is hardly a chore,” Sunstreaker adds, and Optimus shivers as lips brush against his backstrut, charge snapping between Sunstreaker's mouth and his back plating.   
  
“We like to touch,” Tracks agrees, his mouth pressing a soft kiss to Optimus' windshield, gleaming in the wake of their polishing session, his ex-vent fogging up the faux glass.   
  
Ecstasy ripples through his field in an ascending wave that seems to fill Tracks' quarters. Optimus moans, bereft of refusal, giving himself over to their talented caresses.   
  
The shift in Optimus' field becomes unmistakable, heat and desire soaking up every crack and crevice. He moans again, charge dancing and snapping over his armor, overload an inevitable pulse in his circuits.   
  
“And you like to be touched,” Sunstreaker says, their words washing over his audials and around him, seducing him as effectively as their caresses. “It's win-win for everyone involved.”   
  
Optimus' engine rumbles. Clever fingers insinuate themselves into his substructure, stroking over heated cables and charge-spitting wires. He gasps a vent, frame trembling as their lips trace searing paths over his plating.   
  
Overload dances over his circuits, peppering his sensory net with bright bursts of sensation that make his spark twirl and throb. Optimus releases a low moan, sinking into their shared embrace as his frame shakes with pleasure.  
  
“Was it good for you?” he hears Sunstreaker ask, amusement coloring his tone as his hands trace light, nonsensical designs against Optimus' back.   
  
“You,” he murmurs as the overload winds down and his cooling fans struggle to whisk away the heat, “are as devious as your twin.”   
  
Sunstreaker chuckles, a rare if not arousing sound. “You're just now figuring that out?”   
  
“He just hides it better,” Tracks says as he draws back, once Optimus gets his pedes underneath him. “Though he can't take all the credit.”   
  
Optimus smiles himself. “So I am coming to learn. My Autobots are full of surprises today.” He loosens his grasp on Tracks' shoulders, though not without a parting caress. It is only fair.   
  
“Hmm,” Sunstreaker says, drawing back and circling around to Optimus' front. “You have just enough time to grab some energon before your shift starts.”   
  
Tracks nods, linking arms with Sunstreaker, both of them looking ridiculously pleased with themselves. “Pretty well-timed if I do say so myself.”   
  
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “I feel as though I am missing something.” The hunch is a nagging sensation at the back of his processor, but his third overload of the day remains a languid pulse through his systems, dulling those suspicious thoughts.   
  
“Nothing at all,” Sunstreaker replies, and makes a shooing motion with his free hand. “Though if you want to be on time, you might want to put metal to the pedal.”   
  
There is a distinct impression that they are trying to chase him from the room. An impression that is justified when they all but back him toward the door, Tracks hitting the panel for it to open.   
  
“Come back in a week,” Tracks says. “You'll need a touch-up by then.”   
  
Optimus finds himself in the hall, staring as the door closes in front of him. True that he is running out of time before the beginning of his shift, but for a bot that's perennially early, he can't see anyone protesting his brief bout with tardiness. It would have been nice to indulge in a little snuggling.   
  
Well, Tracks and Sunstreaker have a reputation of eccentricity for good reason, Optimus supposes.   
  
To work it is, but first, a detour.   
  


***


	4. Hook Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four -- Hook Me Up  
> Characters: OptimusxGearsxBrawnxCliffjumperxPowerglidexHufferxWindcharger  
> Enticements: bit o' crack, slight ooc?, p'n'p, orgy, public sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never written any of the minibots before so I will warn you in advance that they may be slightly OOC. Also, this fic went just a little cracky because the minis started sniping at each other and Gears wouldn't stop complaining and it got too funny to take seriously.

Systems humming and a languid comfort thrumming through his frame, Optimus heads to the rec room, tanks pinging a need for energon. He also receives a notification of a new message. Suspecting it is merely a query from Prowl regarding his tardiness, Optimus pulls out his datapad and keys open the communication.   
  
No. Not from Prowl at all.   
  
It's another video, this time of his recent excursion into Tracks' quarters. He marvels at the quality of it, and doesn't even have to look to know who sent it. Mirage. The noble spy is certainly sneaking his way around the Ark today.   
  
Chuckling to himself, Optimus saves the file and stows his datapad for future reference. He is gaining quite the collection of erotic videos. He'll have to thank Mirage later.   
  
He turns into the rec room, quickly surveying the current visitors. For this time of day, it is strangely empty, not unlike the halls. The only Autobots present are a gaggle of minibots at the largest table on the far side.   
  
“Good morning, Prime!” Windcharger chirps.   
  
“Morning,” all of the others chorus in various tones from cheerful (Powerglide) to downright dour (Huffer).   
  
“Going to rain today,” Gears adds, always the bright ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. “Would you call that a good morning?”   
  
Optimus returns their greeting, ignores Gears' rhetorical statement, and proceeds to the dispensary. He draws himself a cube of midgrade, checks his chronometer, and finds that he is, at this point, late. Might as well make it fashionable he tells himself, and consumes his energon in several thick swallows, his tanks pinging him with satisfaction and a restoration of adequate energy levels.   
  
He debates drawing another cube, if only to have something to stash in his subspace, when a surly voice interrupts his pondering.   
  
“Found one,” said voice announces, or rather, declares unenthusiastically.   
  
Optimus looks down, confused, to find Huffer standing in front of him, peering at his right thigh in interest. “I beg your pardon?”   
  
“Found another,” someone else says, voice much cheerier and with greater exuberance.   
  
Optimus' helm swings to the left, where Windcharger is standing by his left leg, grinning most triumphantly.   
  
“There's a third!” Powerglide exclaims out of nowhere, nearly startling Optimus as he reaches up and taps the Prime's right arm.   
  
“And this makes four,” Brawn adds, leaning around Windcharger to peer closely at Optimus' left arm. “I think.”   
  
“I hate games,” Gears grumbles as he stomps around them all until he stands in front of Optimus. “All right,” he declares, planting his hands on his hips and staring balefully up at Optimus. “Where are the rest of them?”   
  
Optimus cycles his optics. “The rest of what?”   
  
“There's one right here, too,” says Cliffjumper from somewhere behind Optimus, and he isn't certain where until a light touch brushes across the base of his spinal strut. “Awkward, but doable.”   
  
Confusion reaches a crescendo. “What on Earth are you talking about?” Optimus demands, entirely bewildered.   
  
“I like this one,” Windcharger says with a smile and completely ignoring Optimus' question. It is like the minibots are having a conversation and he hasn't been invited, despite being the topic du jour.   
  
“Might as well claim what we found. It's easier that way,” Huffer mutters and gives the most put-upon sigh Optimus has ever heard. “Guess I'm stuck with the other leg. Figures.”   
  
“I still haven't found one!” Gears protests, stomping a pede in an action Optimus has only seen Earth children use. “Someone help me out.”   
  
“What in Primus' name are you looking for?” Optimus demands, optics swinging from one minibot to the next, save for Cliffjumper who is still behind him.   
  
Brawn rolls his shoulders. “Ports,” he answers in a clipped tone. “You have a lot of them. And more processing power than all the mechs on the Ark. Cept maybe Prowl. Or Red Alert.”   
  
“So we figured you're the only one who could link us,” Windcharger says with a wolfish grin, his field reaching out with a soft caress. “All of us.”   
  
Optimus' optics cycle wider in disbelief. “You want to...?”  
  
“Set up a hub?” Powerglide finishes for him. “Yep. Think you can do it?”   
  
It's not a matter of capability, Optimus thinks. He does have numerous ports, at least three times as many as the average Cybertronian, which is more than enough for the current minibot horde. And trying to manage six different datastreams, well, it's not unlike the sort of datawork he did while helping manage the docks.   
  
But still...   
  
“Of course he can do it!” Cliffjumper snaps, as though personally offended that Optimus' interfacing prowess has been called into question.   
  
“He doesn't want to do it,” Gears mutters. “No one ever wants to do it.”   
  
Huffer throws up his hands. “All of this charge and nowhere to put it,” he says with great lament. “How disappointing.”   
  
“Hold on a minute!” Windcharger says with a firm look to his brethren. “He didn't say no. Right?”   
  
Five pairs of optics turn up at him with curious, pleading looks. He can only assume that Cliffjumper is giving him the same.   
  
“Not exactly,” Optimus begins, knowing he must be careful to choose his words, but the rest of what he planned to say gets lost in a raucous cheering of success. Well, not so much from Huffer and Gears, but the others seem relatively pleased.   
  
“We've been wanting to try this for ages,” Powerglide says with a flutter of his wings. “Too bad Comber's gonna miss it.”   
  
“Beachcomber has other plans, remember?” Windcharger retorts, giving the flier a hard look.   
  
Huffer revs his engine. “Beachcomber has all the fun.”   
  
“Gentlemechs,” Optimus says, a bit loudly to get their attention. “I appreciate the offer, but I am late for my shift. Perhaps another time...?”   
  
He trails off as he is treated to what is quite possibly five of the most crestfallen and disappointed expressions he has ever seen on the face of an Autobot. They put Bluestreak's puppy optics to shame.   
  
“And this is hardly the place,” Optimus adds, with a pointed look around them. Not only is the rec room public, but well, they would impede others if they caused a scene.   
  
“I told you,” Gears says. “We should have never bothered to try.”   
  
“It's because we're minibots, isn't it?” Huffer demands.   
  
“I managed a three-way connect once,” Windcharger murmurs, vocals full of nostalgia. “Never overloaded so hard in all my functioning.”   
  
“It was worth a shot,” Powerglide adds with a roll of his shoulders.   
  
Cliffjumper huffs a ventilation, crossing his arm. “And what's wrong with the rec room anyway? Just last week Smokescreen was bending Sunstreaker backward over the dispenser!”   
  
“I couldn't get any energon,” Gears grumps. “I almost offlined for lack of refueling.”   
  
Hmm. Cliffjumper does have a point. His Autobots have been noticeably slack when it comes to discretion, to the point where Optimus has had to have the dreaded Talk with Spike and Sparkplug about Cybertronian sexuality and all its facets.   
  
Disappointment surges around Optimus from all angles. His Autobots grumble amongst themselves, so honestly defeated that Optimus himself feels guilty. After all, he let Smokescreen and Bluestreak distract him. And then he let Tracks and Sunstreaker drag him off to get repainted when he didn't need it.   
  
He's already late. What could a little more hurt? After all, how often do all of them get time off together?   
  
“I suppose,” he begins, shifting his weight, “if we move to the corner we won't be in anyone's way.” It's early yet, too early for Spike and Sparkplug to stop in for a visit, so in that route, they should be safe. “Or, better yet, we could move to a more private arena.”   
  
“Here's fine!” Windcharger chirps, all but hugging Optimus' left leg.   
  
“I still haven't found one!” Gears declares, throwing up his arms.   
  
“We should move over here,” says Powerglide, tugging on Optimus' right arm as Brawn grabs hold of his left, nearly yanking Optimus from his pedes.   
  
They are small, but Primus are they determined, Optimus realizes with some amusement. He's swept up in a wave of minibots, ushering him out from the middle of the room and subsequently, out of the way of the dispensers.   
  
“I think the floor's easier,” says Cliffjumper, eying Optimus with something a lot like hunger, that makes him shiver with intrigue.   
  
“Floor's dirty,” mutters Huffer. “But I guess if we don't have a better choice...”   
  
“I repeat that we can move this to another location. I am not going to change my mind,” Optimus says.   
  
“The floor isn't that dirty. Primus, Huffer!” Brawn snaps, hands tightening around Optimus' arm such that he is momentarily concerned. But no, Brawn is ever-aware of his own strength and eases back.   
  
How does anything get accomplished with all the bickering, Optimus wonders. Yet, despite it, they somehow manage to move in concert. Optimus finds himself maneuvered to the floor, covered in minibots, with Cliffjumper standing behind him, serving as a backrest. Huffer and Windcharger are straddling his thighs, right and left respectively. Powerglide has a grip on his right arm, Brawn his left. Leaving Gears to stare at them with an increasingly dour expression.   
  
“Left out again,” he mutters, hands on his hips. “This always happens.”   
  
“No, you're not,” Brawn says with an air of exasperation, grabbing his fellow minibot and yanking Gears into a sprawl across Optimus' lap. “Here.”  
  
Optimus' lips twitch with amusement behind his battlemask as Gears lets loose an ungainly squawk, flailing for a minute before Huffer and Windcharger help him right himself. He sits in Optimus' lap, legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate Optimus' wider hip structure, hands planted on Optimus' chest.   
  
“There,” says Windcharger with a burst of satisfaction. “All set.”   
  
Heat buffets Optimus' front, the temperature in their little corner rising as a half-dozen sets of cooling fans whirr to life.   
  
“Shall I go first?” Optimus asks, though the invitation doesn't appear to be needed, not with the way Brawn has taken Optimus' fingers into his mouth, nibbling at them. And while Optimus doesn't have a medic's sensitivity, there's something about the denta and glossa nipping at his fingertips that makes his engine rev.   
  
Cliffjumper's engine is rumbling at his back, eliciting a nice vibration that seems to burrow straight through to Optimus' spark. And Gears has taken it upon himself to explore every nook and cranny of Optimus' chassis, small fingers easily slipping into transformation seams and stroking cables beneath.   
  
“Anytime would be great,” says Windcharger, ventilations a little stuttered as he pops his panels.   
  
Optimus smirks and triggers all of his panels to spool open at once, too flattered to be embarrassed by the sparks that arise in his ports. The minibot horde wastes no time in connecting, and with each cable that clicks home, the heat within Optimus burns a bit brighter.   
  
There are no words to describe the influx of pleasure and arousal that swamps Optimus from helm to pede. From Cliffjumper's eager pulsing at his spinal port, to Huffer and Windcharger somehow feeding him pleasured bursts in tandem, to Brawn's barrage of heavy pulses and Powerglide's skitter-pop like an energon crackle and Gears' flirtatious waves that ebb and flow like the Earth's oceans.   
  
Optimus draws in a heavy ventilation, heat filling the room, and leans back against Cliffjumper, his frame feeling over-full. Charge dances along his sensory net and it takes more concentration than he can directly access to take all that disparate input and merge it into a single sensation.   
  
Huffer makes a noise, his engine revving and sending a wonderful cascade of vibrations over Optimus' plating, igniting his sensor net.   
  
Cliffjumper pushes against his back, rubbing his helm along Optimus' before focusing his attention on a single antenna. Static leaps from Optimus' antenna to Cliffjumper's glossa and back again, sending a tingle of pleasure zinging down Optimus' backstrut.   
  
Gears' fingers continue their in-depth exploration, the minibot's optics glowing brighter and brighter as his frame takes on a motion all its own.   
  
Optimus tries to participate, tries to use each of his hands to caress Powerglide and Brawn, but they turn his intentions against him, capturing his arms and ex-venting wonderful bursts of heat against his plating. It sifts past his armor, teasing the cables and lines beneath.   
  
Pleasure pours in from the six cables connected to Optimus' ports. He tries to take control, as had been the initial request, but somehow, they've changed the rules. The focus shifts to driving him to distraction with varied bursts of affection and desire.   
  
Optimus groans, the sound rattling up from his chassis, his frame shifting beneath the weight of six minibots and not wholly under his control.   
  
Charge licks across his plating, snap-crackling as it surges over his armor and sizzles when it collides with his minibot partners. The sound of more than a half-dozen cooling fans spinning is a loud buzz in the rec room.   
  
Optimus forces his optics online, drinking in the sight of his fellow Autobots in a fast dance toward overload. Bright optics and eager fields and frames twisting and turning to maximize the pleasure.   
  
Affection surges over the seven-way connection, warming Optimus' spark. The pleasure starts in his pedes, rolling upward and shivering through his systems until it blossoms into the brightest overload Optimus can remember experiencing. The release simmers down the cables connecting him to the minibots, setting off a cascading effect.   
  
Cliffjumper's mouth clamps down on his antenna, vocal vibrations dragging out the pleasure as the red minibot succumbs to his own overload. The others follow in suit: Powerglide's wings shivering in a rather delightful manner as the energy crawls over his armor in a beautiful static burst, Brawn's engine growling loud enough to rattle them all, Windcharger losing control of his magnetic abilities and sending Optimus into another strut-shaking overload, Huffer moaning in a tone for once not seething with dissatisfaction, and Gears clutching at Optimus' grill as his heated ex-vents blast against Optimus' windshield.   
  
“Wow,” says Powerglide, a sentiment echoed by the purring satisfaction pulsing down the linked cables.   
  
“Worth it,” agrees Windcharger.   
  
“Finally!” exclaims Brawn.   
  
“My hip joints are seizing up,” grumps Gears.   
  
“We should do it again,” comments Cliffjumper and Optimus can all but hear his grin, though he can't see it.   
  
“Maybe later,” says Huffer. “I think I need a nap.”   
  
And what can Optimus say in response to all of that but laugh and gather as many minibots as he can into an embrace. A cacophony of grumbles, laughter, and squawked surprise fills his audials, but underlying it all is the gratitude and satisfaction.   
  


***


	5. Business As Usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five: Business As Usual  
> Characters: OptimusxInfernoxBlasterxRed Alert  
> Enticements: Sticky, Light restraint, tentacles-ish, public sex, possible OOC and maybe cracky?

It takes the better part of five minutes to disentangle their cables and return themselves to a semblance of order. Optimus' pedes are a bit wobbly beneath him, the pleasure thrumming a happy warmth through his systems, and to his credit, most of his interface partners are shaky in the knees as well.   
  
More energon is acquired and shared before they go their separate ways, Optimus toward his office and the minibot horde toward whatever it is they are actually supposed to be doing. Amusement tugs at Optimus as he watches them go, jostling and nudging each other with elbows and shoulders, like a pack of human football players.   
  
He is at once glad he had opted to indulge them rather than be on time for his shift. A little camaraderie between his Autobots can go a long way. That he enjoyed it immensely is an accidental benefit.   
  
Shaking his helm, Optimus turns toward his office, ever aware of how grossly late he is at this point. Frankly, he's surprised no one's pinged his comm for an explanation. Usually, by this point, Red Alert would be fretting because tardiness is so unlike Optimus. Prowl would also be sending him a dry message, amusement buried within the words, teasing Optimus in a rare show of humor.   
  
Yet, there is nothing. How curious.   
  
Optimus plans to swing by his office, scoop his paperwork into his subspace, and then head to the command center. He'll make a brief appearance, do a few rounds of the Ark, and think about attending to the stack of datapads requiring his signature.   
  
He no sooner steps into the corner of the Ark that serves as his office than his communications net pings. Optimus grins, expecting to find a message of Red Alert urgency, only to open the file and find another video attached. He doesn't even have to play the first few seconds to guess what it is.   
  
Amused, Optimus sends that video file to join the others he's collecting today – Mirage is quite the busy agent. It is a testament to his skills that Optimus has yet to notice the noble spy recording him.   
  
Optimus finishes off his energon, tucks away the cube, and then looks at his desk.   
  
What...?  
  
He reboots his optics and looks again.   
  
There is nothing on his desk. His inbox is empty. His outbox is empty. There aren't even any blank patches in the dust to indicate where stacks of datapads had once been. In fact, there isn't any dust at all.   
  
Come to think of it...  
  
Optimus turns in a slow circle, looking around his office. There isn't a speck of dust to be found anywhere. His whole office has been thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom. The floor sparkles. His bookshelf has been alphabetized and organized. His desk is clear of work.   
  
Did he walk into Prowl's office by mistake?  
  
The urge to walk back out, check the name on the door, nearly overcomes him. Optimus can't remember a time his desk has been clear of some kind of paperwork, both backlog and current. There's always so much he's never finished.   
  
Someone has taken the time to not only clean his office, but complete his work, all but giving him a free day. Optimus has no idea what to do with the opportunity or himself. He doesn't know who to thank either. It baffles him.   
  
Perhaps Prowl will have an answer.   
  
Still amazed, Optimus heads back out of his office and makes for the command center. Prowl should be on duty right now. Maybe he's the one Optimus should thank.   
  
Strange, however, that the hallways are yet again empty. Is there some celebration or holiday of which Optimus is unaware? Had there been another one of Sideswipe's infamous parties which is causing his Autobots to remain in their berths except for those attending to their duties?   
  
It is rare for the Ark to be so quiet. It is almost unnerving. Or it would be. Red Alert must be beside himself with glee. No trouble-makers and no noise? It's just about a vacation for the stressed-out security mech. Which is good because Red Alert certainly deserves one.   
  
Smiling at the thought of his security director relaxed and at ease for once, Optimus strides into the command center, only to find the aforementioned mech sitting where Prowl should have been. Blaster is beside him, on communications, and Inferno is nearby. No one is at the secondary monitors.   
  
And Red Alert's not fritzing out because no one's showed up for their shift? Optimus has to reboot his visual systems - _again_ \- just to be sure he's not seeing things.   
  
“Good morning, sir,” says Inferno with a bright tone. “Recharge well?”   
  
“Morning, big boss,” adds Blaster with a happy wave over his shoulder. “You're looking in fine spirits today.”   
  
“Nothing to report,” says Red Alert in a scarily cheerful tone. “Aren't you supposed to have the day off, sir?”   
  
Optimus reboots his audials, still taken aback. “Not that I'm aware,” he says, carefully choosing his words. “Is Prowl not on shift today?”   
  
“We switched,” Red Alert replies, swiveling back toward the main monitor. “He will be in command later this evening.”   
  
Something tickles at Optimus' right pede. He shifts his weight, rolling his ankle to soothe whatever is twitching. Probably a kinked line or two. He'll have Ratchet take a look later if the irritation persists.   
  
“I see.” Optimus moves closer to the console, optics searching the monitors for any signs of humans in distress. “Any movement from the Decepticons?”   
  
“Not so much as a moonwalk, boss,” Blaster replies with a grin. “They're still licking their wounds and sulking over their loss. I'm sure Megatron will hit us with another overly elaborate plan soon enough.”   
  
Optimus inclines his helm. “Even so, we should all be on alert. Megatron has surprised us before.”   
  
His left ankle twitches this time. Optimus shakes his pede discreetly and reaches for the stack of datapads at Red Alert's right, only to be surprised when his security director slaps a hand on top of the pile.   
  
“You are supposed to be off-shift today, sir,” Red Alert says, giving Optimus a stern look. “Not pilfering my work for yourself.”   
  
Optimus wisely retracts his hand. Red Alert could be surprisingly possessive about the oddest things.   
  
“I was curious,” Optimus says with a smile and returns his attentions to the screens where, again, nothing is happening. He doesn't know why the Decepticons are so quiet, but he's more than willing to enjoy the momentary peace. “But very well, I'll leave them alone.”   
  
“Good.” Red Alert takes his hand from the stack and returns his attention to his duty.   
  
Something twitches at Optimus' ankle again. He hears the sound of muffled laughter but when he looks at Blaster and Inferno, they are stone-faced.   
  
The tickle turns into a simmer of pleasure. Optimus looks down and finds a data cable wound around his ankle. The small manipulators have emerged from the tip and they are what's currently teasing the servos in his ankle.   
  
Optimus tracks the length of the cable, finding that it leads straight to... Red Alert?  
  
Optimus coughs into his hand. “Red Alert,” he says, attempting to sound stern but it's difficult to pull off when he's so amused. “Why is your data cable wrapped around my ankle?”   
  
On the other side of the command center, Inferno roars a laugh. “Because he thinks he's being subtle.”   
  
Red Alert huffs, though he never takes his optics off the monitor system. “That _is_ subtle. Just because I don't walk in with a swagger, dropping lewd comments, you find my flirtatious overtures to be ridiculous!”   
  
“I think it's cute,” says Blaster, lips drawn into a wide smile.   
  
Flirtatious overture? Is that what it was?   
  
“I'm flattered,” Optimus says with a warm smile for his security director, laying a hand on Red Alert's shoulder. “Once you are off duty, I will be happy to take you up on that offer.”   
  
Pleasure vibrates in Red Alert's energy field, along with a dose of pride. “Why not now?” he asks, to Optimus' surprise. “I am capable of dividing my attention accordingly.”   
  
Optimus' mouth opens and closes and repeats the action, but no words emerge. He finds it hard to believe that the suggestion came from Red Alert of all mechs.   
  
“It's a secret fantasy of his,” Inferno says in a loud whisper and a lewd wink. “Something he's always wanted to try and I have to admit, I'd like to see it.”   
  
“I'd like to participate,” adds Blaster with a cheerful blurt of some kind of sensuous saxophone trill. One of his data cables emerges from his lateral ports, waving a greeting at Optimus.   
  
Optimus cycles his optics. “I must admit I'm tempted,” he says, hand still resting on Red Alert's shoulder and feeling the smaller mech heat up beneath his fingers. “Though I maintain that the safety of the Ark and the humans is paramount.”   
  
“Prowl can observe 800 moving objects at once,” Red Alert states, something in his tone implying affront. “I am optimized for locating the tiniest gap in a security grid and discovering the most minute weakness. If you think I would suggest this without being capable of ensuring one-hundred percent protection at all times then clearly, you need another security director.”   
  
Silence.  
  
Inferno coughs into his palm.   
  
Blaster's saxophone line ends with a surprised hiccup.   
  
“My apologies,” Optimus says, nearly shifting his weight from apprehension. “I would be pleased to take part in your fantasy, Red Alert.” He eyes the other two observers. “And anyone else who wishes to join.”   
  
A touch of embarrassment colors Red Alert's field but he dips his helm in a nod. “Thank you,” he says, and the cable returns, sliding around Optimus' ankle in something he can only term a hug. “And if those two miscreants promise to behave, they are allowed to participate.”   
  
“Behave?” Blaster says with a laugh, though he moves to take a closer chair. “I thought the whole point was to misbehave.”  
  
“Within reason,” Red Alert cautions, waggling a finger at them and unraveling another data cable, all without taking his optics off the screen or his second hand from the control panel. A master of multi-tasking indeed.   
  
Inferno chuckles. “For the record, I'm game.”   
  
“And in case I wasn't clear, so am I,” Blaster says as his chair slides across the floor, bumping into Red Alert's so that they share panel space. “I'll share the load, Red. Enjoy yourself.”   
  
A thin cable spools from Blaster's right forearm, connecting with the control panel, even as his lateral seams part, a bundle of thinner data cables emerging.   
  
Red Alert and Blaster are of different frame-types, so their cables are modified for different functions. Red Alert's for data retrieval and Blaster's for communications. In many ways, Blaster is just as capable of splitting his attention as Red Alert, though his is more along the lines of tracking multiple conversations at once.   
  
The second of Red Alert's cables wind around Optimus' other pede, both of them circling his legs in a steady climb upward until he's immobile from the hips down. He can, if he wants, break free, but not without damaging Red Alert in the process. It's the illusion of immobility that matters.   
  
Optimus looks down just as a thinner cable taps on his chestplate, between his windshields. It ripples at him as though seeking permission.   
  
“Sector Fifteen, clear,” says Red Alert and for a moment, Optimus boggles. Red Alert truly does intend to continue to work, despite the fact the furthest ends of his datacables are caressing every inch of Optimus' abdominal and pelvic plating.   
  
“Roger-dodger, relaying that to security team now,” Blaster contributes and Optimus glances his communications officer's direction. Both of them intend to split their attention?   
  
Color him impressed.   
  
Blaster's smaller cable takes his lack of rejection as permission and slides into a transformation seam between his windshields. It's an interesting sensation to feel that thin cable wriggling along his struts and cables, brushing over sensor nodes on the underside of his armor and on his protoform.   
  
The cable pauses and Optimus can't see what it's doing, but he can feel it. A dozen tiny filaments spiral from the tip, latching onto his protoform with thin tendrils. Optimus shivers as each one latches onto a sensor, directly stimulating it. Which feels... nice actually. More than pleasant.   
  
The tiny burst of electric static that accompanies them, however, is much, much nicer and Optimus tries and fails to stifle a groan. He twitches from helm to pede, moving into a touch that's beneath his armor and invisible to outside viewers. To anyone watching -- Mirage, he guesses -- it would appear he's reacting to nothing.   
  
Optimus moans, torso rattling and hands clenching into fists as he can't move his pedes. Each sensor node sends him an update defining sensation and pressure and the pleasure builds and builds. He sucks in a startled ventilation, jerking and then feels himself tipping backward, unable to correct without use of his legs and pedes.   
  
There's a thunk as he hits something solid behind him, colliding with a chestplate that thrums against his back. Arms come up around him, holding him in place.   
  
“Inferno...?” Optimus assumes aloud.   
  
A deep chuckle echoes in his audial. “Oh, don't mind me,” Inferno replies, hold firm but otherwise chaste. “I'm just the furniture, here for a show.” His hands slide up from Optimus' sides, to his underarms and then up his arms, gradually pulling them up and over Optimus' helm, keeping his torso pinned in much the same manner as his lower half.   
  
Again, it is a hold Optimus can easily break, but with Blaster systematically igniting every sensor in his substructure and Red Alert's cables squeezing his legs in intervals, Optimus finds he doesn't want to.   
  
A moan spills from his vocalizer as Red Alert's cables skirt his inner thighs before brushing his interface panel. Optimus heats up from helm to pede, helm tipping so that he can watch the flexible cable as it prods and slides along his sensitive panels.   
  
“Sector Sixteen, clear,” Red Alert says as the first cable circles Optimus' valve panel over and over again, as though trying to tease him into opening.   
  
“Check and double-check,” Blaster says, his smaller cables spreading further beneath Optimus' armor in a thin web over his substructure. Each filament seems happy to latch onto a sensor node, sending tiny electrical impulses straight into his sensor net.   
  
Optimus' panel snaps open, lubricant dribbling outward as his calipers cycle hungrily. Red Alert's focus seems to be on his monitoring, but there's no denying the intent in his cable as it slides along the dribble of lubricant before wriggling upward.   
  
Red Alert's cable pushes into his valve, smaller than a spike, but warm and conductive, making him eager for more. It pushes deeper, sliding through the lubricant and Optimus' valve clenches down, soaking up every bit of sensation.   
  
And then the connective port spirals open and tiny filaments spiral out, attaching to every one of Optimus' sensory nodes in his valve. It tickles at first, and then he shouts, frame arching as Red Alert does something that makes each and every one of them come to life. Inferno struggles to hold him in place, fingers tightening around his wrists. Optimus shakes, hips moving to their own rhythm, as the pleasure throbs through him.   
  
A second cable joins the first, pushing into his valve and adding to the stretch. Both cables tighten around his legs, further immobilizing him and keeping him open for the steady push-pull into his valve. Optimus can feel the lubricant dripping out of him, slicking his thighs, making a puddle on the floor. He ought to feel embarrassed, but he can't, not when the pleasure shoots through him like a lightning bolt.   
  
Inferno's embrace tightens, shifting his weight to help keep Optimus upright. He's vibrating against Optimus' back, frame expelling heat in soft waves that batter against Optimus' plating. His own vents blast open, fans thrumming as they suck in long draughts of cooler air.   
  
He's going to need to change his filters again at this rate. And Ratchet's going to need to replace a few circuits, top off his fluids, prescribe berth rest...  
  
“Sector Seventeen, clear,” Red Alert says, his vocals droning in the background, beneath the rushing in Optimus' audials.   
  
The two cables pump in and out of his valve in opposing rhythms, the friction between them adding to the friction against his valve walls. Each withdraw sets a light pull against the filaments attached to his sensors that registers as pleasure more than pain. His calipers flutter, unsure whether to cycle down or loosen, and the conflicting sensations make the heat tighten into a desperate coil within Optimus' abdomen.   
  
“Clear as a bell,” Blaster says and an electric impulse comes straight down his cable and into Optimus' substructure.   
  
He writhes within the confines of Red Alert's cables and Inferno's hold, hearing his plating clatter and his vents stutter. His moan overrides the soft beeping of the command console and he feels the lubricant slick down his legs, joining the puddle on the floor.   
  
One of the cables pushes deeper, filling his valve completely and pressing against his retral node. Rather than flicking across it like the motion of a spike, the tip of the cable applies a constant pressure, circling the sensory node over and over and over again. Optimus' legs tremble and he falls harder against Inferno, valve cycling down on the two cables as he feels the overload creeping over him.   
  
He sucks in a stuttered ventilation, optics cutting off, hands drawing into fists. Blaster and Red Alert talk about another sector, but Optimus can't hear the details over his vents, the clattering of his armor, the somehow audible noise of the cables moving through the lubricant of his valve. Every burst of electric impulse from Blaster's cable seems to move straight through his frame to his valve, where Red Alert's cables drive his sensory nodes mad with pleasure.   
  
A sound that has no definition emerges from Optimus' vocalizer as he arches with his overload, entire frame shaking. His valve contracts squeezing down on Red Alert's cables as electricity crawls across his frame in a display that surely lights up the control room. Pleasure ripples through him, overriding his conscious, and it's several long minutes before Optimus comes down from his sensory-overload.   
  
The sound of several cooling fans seems to roar in the command center. Optimus forces his optics back online, finding Blaster half-bent over the main console and Red Alert's helm dipped, hands locked on the arms of his chair. Behind him, Inferno is vibrating, pushing so much heat at Optimus that he can't cool himself down.   
  
The cables in his valve, on his limbs, and buried over his substructure are all trembling, giving stuttered flashes of charge that are less intended to excite as they are unintentional aftershocks.   
  
“S-sector Nineteen,” Red Alert stutters, his vocals laced with static. “C-clear.”   
  
Blaster lets loose a dry laugh that in no way constitutes a legitimate response.   
  
Inferno's forehelm hits the back of Optimus' shoulders as a low chuckle escapes him. “He's determined, that's for sure."  
  
Amusement rises up within Optimus as well, though it's tinged with affection. He has to give Red Alert credit. The mech's field is radiating satisfaction and the buzz of a recent overload but he's gamely watching the primary monitors and keeping the Ark secure.   
  
And, well, Optimus, too. He twitches his legs and flares his plating, bringing attention to the fact he's still restrained.   
  
“Oh, sorry, OP,” Blaster says, still bent over the console as though he can't bring himself to lift up. “Let me just...” he trails off as the filaments of his cables gradually retract from Optimus' substructure, leaving a faint tingling in their wake.   
  
It's nearly enough to rev Optimus all over again. He cycles several careful ventilations, though heat begins to curl lazily within him. One would think he's had enough after a day like today, but it's as if someone has tainted his energon with some kind of arousal-inducing ingredient. He has never known himself to have such a libido before.   
  
Blaster blindly reaches over, prodding Red Alert in a lateral seam. “You, too, Red,” he says. “Prime's getting squirrelly.”   
  
“That's not the word I'd use,” Inferno says, his hands loosening their grip on Optimus, only so that they can start to roam, mapping out the contours of his upper frame and chestplate. “You feel ready for a second round, Prime.”   
  
It's all Optimus can do to keep himself still as Blaster continues to withdraw his sensory cables with agonizing slowness. Red Alert, though lacking a vocal response, begins to unwind his cables as well, leaving a mess of lubricant in his wake and scraping his cables along the inside of Optimus' valve. He shivers.   
  
“Keep that up and I might be,” Optimus declares as Blaster finally manages to push himself upright, cloaking himself in a veil of discipline.   
  
“Sector Nineteen, check,” Blaster says after making a sound not unlike a human clearing his or her throat.   
  
Inferno's amusement buffers at his energy field. “You tempt me, Prime.” His grip slides back to Optimus' hips, holding him still as Red Alert carefully frees Optimus' legs and pedes, granting him freedom of movement.   
  
“Alas, I must return to work,” Optimus says, though he still remembers the emptiness of his desk and the lack of datapads in his inbox.   
  
“No, you have an off-shift all day,” Inferno reminds him, hands giving Optimus' a light squeeze before he steps back, all but setting Optimus back on his own two pedes. “And you should be enjoying every minute of it.”   
  
“Sector Twenty is clear,” Red Alert says, sounding more, well, alert. He lifts his helm, scanning the monitors. “And Inferno's right, sir. You should get your aft out of the command center before the urge to do work overcomes you.”   
  
“As if any of us are going to be thinking of work now,” Blaster says with a laugh, cutting his optics toward Red Alert before adding, “I mean, only thinking of work.” He winks.   
  
Optimus wobbles on his pedes but manages to cling to an air of dignity. “We are fortunate that all of you are so dedicated to keeping us safe.”   
  
Red Alert waves a cable at him, the tip of it glistening with lubricant. “Yes, yes. Now begone with you, Optimus. We have work to do and you have fun to enjoy.” He says 'fun' with the same sort of distaste most Autobots use in referring to Decepticons. Though it's hard to take him seriously with the scent of ozone so thick in the air and the pool of lubricant beneath Optimus.   
  
He gives said pool a look and gingerly steps around it. “Command received,” Optimus says and backs toward the exit.   
  
He watches as Red Alert snaps at Blaster to get back to work, even as a cleaning drone putters out from beneath the console to attend to the mess. Inferno chuckles to himself, pulling a cloth from subspace to wipe himself down and Blaster gives a heavy sigh of resignation as he relays the newly cleared sectors to whomever is on perimeter patrol.   
  
Business as usual. Just like that.   
  


****


	6. Against the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five: Against the Wall  
> Characters: OptimusxSideswipexTrailbreakerxHound  
> Enticements: Sticky, pnp, public sex

Optimus takes Inferno's suggestion to spark. He will enjoy this unexpected day off to its fullest, even if his entire command staff has conspired against him to ensure he will take it.   
  
He stops by the washracks – surprisingly empty given the time of day – and gives himself a quick wipedown. He is not at all surprised by the message that soon hits his inbox, another gift from Mirage, and simply shunts the new video to a folder he's created specifically for them. Once clean, it's off to find something else to fill the time.   
  
He heads for the training room, frame still humming from the force of his overload. There is no better way to burn off the extra energy and Ironhide had told him last week that he is getting sloppy. Some mindless target practice will do him some good.   
  
At least, that is his intention.   
  
When the door slides open, however, the lingering refrains of a spiraling cry tease at his audials. Someone is enjoying himself and as Optimus steps inside, he gets his answer as to whom, his recently sated interface systems surging to life at the sight.   
  
Sideswipe is currently pinned between Trailbreaker and Hound, the former braced against the wall with Sideswipe's weight leaned against him. Trailbreaker has his hands hooked under Sideswipe's knees, holding him up and open for Hound, who seems to be enjoying the offer.   
  
Though of them all, Sideswipe looks the most satisfied, his field reaching out and humming with pleasure.   
  
Hedonists. His Autobots are nothing but a collection of hedonists, and Optimus must be the worst of them all. Because despite his multiple overloads today, the sight of Sideswipe panting between the two of them, hands clutching Trailbreaker's arms, makes his spike pressurize behind his panel.   
  
Especially when Hound draws back, his spike slipping from Sideswipe's valve and revealing the lubricant-soaked entrance. Transfluid and lubricant both drip to the floor. If Optimus didn't know any better, he'd say they planned this.   
  
Hound and Trailbreaker share a kiss over Sideswipe, the frontliner squirming between them, muttering something about being ignored. Soft laughter punctuates his complaint, Hound ending the kiss to press a quick one to the corner of Sideswipe's mouth.   
  
Only then does Optimus think that maybe he should turn around and leave. Of course, that's also when Trailbreaker notices him, his visor brightening in pleased surprise.   
  
“Prime,” he greets, causing his partners to look in Optimus' direction. “Good afternoon. We were just taking a break.”   
  
“From target practice,” Sideswipe adds, but he can't keep a straight face and breaks into a grin, looking not at all embarrassed to be caught in a compromising situation.   
  
Then again, this is Sideswipe so of course he wouldn't be.   
  
Hound, at least, looks contrite. “Sorry, sir. If you want to practice, we can leave.”   
  
“Or better yet, you can join in,” Sideswipe says, wriggling a little in Trailbreaker's arms. He's got one hand latched on Hound's shoulder, as though trying to keep the scout from leaving.   
  
Optimus waffles between amusement and lust. Technically, they aren't breaking any rules and Optimus is hardly displeased with them. Hound looks a touch embarrassed, but Sideswipe is unapologetic and Trailbreaker's fans chose that moment to cycle into a higher speed.   
  
“There's no need for you to leave,” Optimus says, forcing his pedes into motion, trying to ignore the heat pulsing through his systems though his optics are locked on the dripping valve shamelessly bared to him. “I am the one intruding.”   
  
“We're the ones in public,” says Trailbreaker, his fingers visibly tightening in their grip on Sideswipe's knees, though whether that's from rising lust or fatigue, Optimus can't guess.   
  
“Or we could not discuss this and go back to what we were enjoying,” Sideswipe says with another squirm, followed by a pleading look Optimus' direction. “And you could join us and everyone will be happy.”   
  
Optimus can't help himself; he chuckles. “Is that what you want, Sideswipe?”   
  
“Yes!”   
  
“Wouldn't bother me,” adds Trailbreaker, his vocals taking on an aroused husk.   
  
Hound steps to the side, extending the invitation. “Sharing is the Autobot way,” he says, and clearly, Sideswipe's mischief has been rubbing off on him.   
  
“Don't make me beg,” Sideswipe says.   
  
“Or do,” Trailbreaker says with a grin. “He's good at it.”   
  
“No one's better at it than Jazz,” Sideswipe retorts with a roll of his optics that he then directs at Optimus. “That being said, boss, please?”   
  
Well, when he puts it that way...  
  
Frame moving on auto-pilot, Optimus approaches the threesome, fitting himself between Sideswipe's legs, keeping to himself the thrill he feels overshadowing the smaller mech. Then again, most of the Autobots are smaller than him.   
  
“What would you like?” Optimus asks as Sideswipe's legs clamp around his hips, canting his pelvic toward Optimus' panel in unvoiced desire. He can feel the heat radiating off the frontliner, or maybe that's Trailbreaker, who's venting so much heat that charge is starting to erupt from beneath his plating.   
  
“Anything,” Sideswipe pants, rocking his hips against Optimus', leaving a smear of lubricant across his panel.   
  
Optimus' spike pops free, sliding against Sideswipe's armor, a streak of transfluid in its wake. He would be embarrassed if it weren't for the lust brightening Sideswipe's optics and the way Trailbreaker leans harder against Sideswipe's back, his mouth seeking out the sensor suites on the frontliner's helm.   
  
“I think you answered your own question,” Hound says, palming his own panel and making no secret of the fact he is watching.   
  
“I think he did, too,” Sideswipe moans, body arching in two directions, his helm toward Trailbreaker and his hips toward Optimus. “Please.”   
  
Trailbreaker, his hands now on Sideswipe's aft, pushes the frontliner up toward Optimus. “If you don't, I will,” he challenges.   
  
Optimus can hardly deny either of his Autobots. He leans in, grabs Sideswipe's mouth for a scorching kiss that mixes their glossa, before lining himself up at Sideswipe's valve. He pushes into the soaked channel, groaning as Sideswipe's valve flexes and clamps rhythmically around him. His spike pulses, charge already crackling within Sideswipe's valve and teasing him.   
  
Trailbreaker's hand works between their bodies, rubbing his palm over Sideswipe's panel until his spike springs free and then wrapping his hand around it. Sideswipe shivers, his valve contracting around Optimus' spike, intensifying the sensation.   
  
And then hands land on Optimus' back, fingers dipping into the seams in his plating and toying with the thick cables beneath. He doesn't have to look to know it's Hound, not when the scout ex-vents air in heated bursts against his back. His spike, repressurized and leaking transfluid, pokes at Optimus' legs, sliding along his thighs.   
  
There's something erotic about the slick push of Hound's spike that makes Optimus' engine rev. The vibrations travel through him, transferring to his partner, and Sideswipe groans into the kiss, breaking free with a gasp and throwing his helm back against Trailbreaker's chestplate.   
  
Optimus slides one hand around Sideswipe's right thigh for leverage and wraps the other around Sideswipe's spike, joining Trailbreaker's. Sideswipe arches between them, his high-performance engine audibly rumbling. And Hound reaches an arm around Optimus, all that he can manage, to tease fingers in the slats of his grill.   
  
Well, Optimus thinks as the sound of metal scraping against metal and multiple moans filled the training room, this is one way to disperse the extra energy. And probably gain more in the process.   
  
Hound's fingers drag back around Optimus' side, tapping his right thoracic port. “Mind if I...?”  
  
Optimus' answer is to pop the panel open, unsurprised to find static already crackling outward. It's embarrassing how quickly he's cycling up to overload, but Sideswipe's valve is a deliciously slick slide and Trailbreaker's field hums with arousal and Hound's talented fingers keep painting paths of arousal over Optimus' frame. Optimus doesn't know if it's because he's usually not so inclined to interface or because today has been full of it, but to say he's not enjoying it would be a lie.   
  
Hound's cable clicks home and Optimus moans as the scout's arousal burns across the link, flooding Optimus' systems. His hips snap forward, burying deeper into Sideswipe whose hands clutch onto his shoulders, fingers scrabbling for a grip.   
  
Trailbreaker surges forward, squishing Sideswipe between them, and Optimus meets Trailbreaker halfway, their lips crashing in a heated kiss. Sideswipe squeaks between them, but doesn't protest, his valve squeezing down hard on Optimus, more lubricant gushing free, coating Optimus' pelvis and Sideswipe's own thighs.   
  
“Primus,” Hound breathes, arms wrapped around Optimus from behind, his helm pressed to Optimus' backstrut. He's shaking, frame pressing against Optimus, need crackling along their length.   
  
Optimus can only agree with Hound, moaning into Trailbreaker's mouth as Sideswipe writhes between them. His spike plunges into Sideswipe's valve, his fingers working in tandem with Trailbreaker's, until Sideswipe shouts, spike erupting in spurts of transfluid. His valve clamps down on Optimus' spike, milking it for all it's worth.   
  
Optimus moans, fingers gripping Sideswipe's thigh to the tune of dented metal. He breaks away from the kiss with Trailbreaker to pant against the side of Sideswipe's helm, overload making him shake from helm to pede, flooding his link with Hound.   
  
He hears the scout all but whimper behind him, arms tightening as he splatters over Optimus' thighs, adding to the mess.  
  
Four heated, sated frames collapse forward, cooling fans desperately sucking in air. Hound drapes himself across Optimus' back, the vibrations of his frame almost ticklish against Optimus' plating.   
  
“Primus,” Optimus murmurs, sloppily seeking out Sideswipe's mouth.   
  
“Totally agree,” Sideswipe pants and nips at his lips before his glossa sweeps inside.   
  
“We could always go again,” Hound says, his hands sliding down, coyly tracing where Sideswipe and Optimus are still joined.   
  
“Or we could finish round one,” Trailbreaker suggests, and the heat blasting off his frame is testament to the fact he hasn't overloaded.   
  
“I like the way he thinks,” Sideswipe says, pressing one last kiss to Optimus' mouth.   
  
Optimus can't agree more, and after a moment of untangling limbs and cables, he and Sideswipe and Hound descend on Trailbreaker en masse. Hound claims his best friend's mouth, Sideswipe drops to his knees and swallows Trailbreaker to the hilt, and Optimus buries his hands in the tactician's substructure, mouth attacking Trailbreaker's shield generator.   
  
It doesn't take long before Trailbreaker overloads with a roar, his field pulsing with bliss. He sags against the wall, cooling fans whirring to the same tune as everyone else's.   
  
Sideswipe pulls back, smacking his lips and offering a cheeky grin. “I think that means round two is finished.” His fingers tease a seductive path down Trailbreaker's thigh. “Plenty of time for round three, yes?”   
  
Optimus groans, though he's careful to keep his tone as playful as he meant it. “I am an old mech, Sideswipe. I haven't the energy.”   
  
Hound snickers. “You don't give yourself enough credit, sir. After all, I don't know any one mech who can keep up with Sideswipe.”   
  
“I'm trying to decide if I should be offended,” retorts the frontliner with a pout that is more seductive than disappointed.   
  
“It depends on your point of view,” says Trailbreaker, dropping a hand down to Sideswipe's helm and caressing his sensor nubs. “For instance, I'm very appreciative of your talents.”   
  
Sideswipe grins.   
  
Optimus' comm chirps.   
  
He politely excuses himself from the tangle of arms and legs as Sideswipe starts eying Hound all over again and discreetly snaps his panel closed. As he answers the call, Optimus looks down at himself, wondering if there's a single cloth in the world that can handle the mess on his thighs.   
  
Another trip to the washracks perhaps? He's going to rust at this rate.   
  
“Prime here,” Optimus says, checking the identifier and finding that it is the medbay. “Is something wrong, Ratchet?”   
  
“Sorry, sir,” says Hoist's distinctive accent, “but Ratchet's on leave today.”   
  
Is the entire senior command staff on leave today? First, Jazz and then Prowl and now Ratchet? Next thing Prime knows he won't be able to find Ironhide either.   
  
“I see,” Optimus replies. “Well. My question stands. Is something wrong?”   
  
Amusement enters Hoist's tone. “No. Though I was curious as to why you were late for your maintenance check.”   
  
Confused, Optimus accesses his internal schedule. “I don't have a--” Optimus cycles his optics in surprise because, yes, there it is. He has a maintenance check scheduled for fifteen minutes ago.   
  
He did not remember scheduling it, nor Ratchet badgering him into scheduling it, nor it being on his schedule this morning. Primus. He's going to have Hoist take a look at his memory core. Perhaps there is a glitch.   
  
“My apologies, Hoist. I must have forgotten to set an appointment reminder. I will be there in five minutes.” He pauses, remembering the mess streaking his abdomen and thighs. “Actually, ten minutes would be better.”   
  
“All right. See you then.”   
  
Optimus ends the call and turns to give Trailbreaker, Sideswipe, and Hound his apologies, but they seem to have moved on without him.   
  
“I see I won't be missed,” he comments dryly, and though part of him wants to dive back into that kinky threesome, he has an appointment to keep.   
  
To the medbay it is.  
  


****


	7. Medical Necessity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: HoistxGrapplexOptimus  
> Enticements: Sticky, Tactile, Oral, Handjob  
> Description: Someone has not been given all of their parts the proper attention. Hoist and Grapple seek to rectify that oversight.

Optimus is in the washracks for yet another quick rinse when he gets the ping for a new message. Grinning to himself, he is not at all surprised by the contents and can only conclude that Mirage must be trailing him wherever he goes. Or he is in league with Red Alert and tapping into the Ark's surveillance system.   
  
Still, for this quality video, the former noble deserves a gift. Optimus will have to think of something nice to give him.   
  
Today is turning out to be quite the unexpected day, Optimus muses as he steps out of the racks and hurriedly swipes his frame clear of solvent. Unexpected, but also very pleasant.   
  
Sharing pleasure with his Autobots is nothing new to Optimus. It only seems to be happening in abundance today. He is far from complaining, only curious as to why.   
  
Optimus tosses the damp, over-sized towel into a bin for later cleaning, checks the time, and hurries on to the medbay. He arrives with seconds to spare, finding the medbay to be empty of all personnel save Hoist and Grapple.   
  
“Hullo, Optimus,” says Grapple with a cheerful wave.   
  
“Good afternoon, sir,” adds Hoist as he swipes a cloth over the main diagnostic berth, fastidious to an even stronger degree than Ratchet. “Enjoying your day off?”   
  
“Yes. Though unexpected it was.” Optimus peers around, into every nook and cranny, but he can't see anyone else. Not even another patient, miracle of miracles.   
  
“Is there a problem?” Grapple asks, sounding amused.   
  
Optimus chuckles, his plating relaxing. “No. It's hard not to be wary when entering Ratchet's domain, is all.”   
  
“A wise frame of mind,” Grapple replies.   
  
“Poor Ratchet. He has such a reputation.” Hoist laughs with a shake of his helm, stowing away his cleaning cloth. “On the berth with you then. This shan’t take long.”   
  
“It is one well-deserved,” Optimus says as he climbs onto the medberth and Hoist hurries to lift the extenders to accommodate his frame. “Though I've often reassured the troops he's all bluster.”   
  
“Small wonder they don't believe you.” Grapple wheels over a tray loaded with medical paraphernalia, including jugs of coolant and cydraulic fluid. “Ratchet enjoys cultivating an aura of terror.”   
  
“That he does.” Optimus laughs and makes himself comfortable, remarking that they must have redesigned the berth because his pedes no longer dangle off the end. How nice.  
  
Grapple pats him on the shoulder. “Relax, Optimus. Ratchet keeps you at one-hundred percent so we're just going to do some basic maintenance.”   
  
“Change your filters. Flush your coolant. Fill your reservoirs. Et cetera. Et cetera,” Hoist adds, patting him on the other shoulder.   
  
“That sounds acceptable.” Optimus draws in a heavy vent and releases it slowly, offlining his optics and completely relaxing onto the berth. Unlike most of the Autobots, he hasn't developed a fear of the medbay.   
  
Yet.   
  
Optimus drifts off as they work, half-dozing, half-aware. He watches as his HUD reports a steadily climbing percent of function. He can't remember the last time he's been entirely maintained.   
  
Hoist tsks at him as a scan washes over Optimus, tingling where it hits his most reactive sensors. “How can you function with so many kinked cables?”   
  
“To be honest, I've ceased noticing them,” Optimus replies, which is truth. They were, at first, irritating, but low on his list of priorities. They don't impede necessary function or cause true pain. Getting those kinks smoothed out feels like a luxury.   
  
The medic sighs, the sound of a mech exasperated but also used to being so. “This won't do. They'll have to be sorted at once.”   
  
Prime flickers his optics, raising his hands to spread them in surrender. “I'm at your mercy,” he says.   
  
Grapple chuckles. “Yes, you are. Yet, you might find you'll enjoy it.”   
  
Two sets of hands descend upon him. Grapple, at his helm, manually works the strong cables of his arms and shoulders. While Hoist starts at Optimus' pedes, a lazy heat emanating from his palms and pulsing against his kinked joints. Optimus fights back a moan. He can feel the tightness ease, an irritating but background pain vanishing into the minutes.   
  
Grapple moves on to his chestplate and lateral seams, leaving loose plating in his wake and a soft bloom of comfort. Warmth spreads through Optimus, his engine rumbling with a happy purr.   
  
Hoist slides up his legs, paying attention to his knees before approaching Optimus' thighs. Sensitive inner plating sensors tingle. His interface components heat, not so much a desperate lust as it is a floating desire.   
  
In fact, he tingles all over.   
  
Hoist's field pulses affection and amusement at him, even as his fingers dive into the seams at Optimus' hips.   
  
“Will you open for me, sir?” Hoist asks, tone hinting of mischief as one of his fingers teases a path across Optimus' interface panel.   
  
“Maintenance checks include all aspects of a mech's frame, after all,” Grapple purrs.   
  
“I'm sensing an ulterior motive,” Optimus says, onlining his optics to give both of his medics an indulgent look.   
  
“Perhaps,” Hoist says with a hot ex-vent over the panel concealing Optimus' spike and valve. “It would be my pleasure to offer you some.”   
  
Grapple's fingers continue to work their magic, massaging relaxation into every stressed cable. “Every mech deserves to be pampered every so often, Prime.”   
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Everyone seems to share that opinion today.”   
  
“Then, as Jazz would say, you should relax and go with the flow,” Hoist says with a wink and a stroke of his fingers.   
  
“Sound advice.” Optimus smiles and relaxes, letting his panels slide open in answer to Hoist's request.   
  
The tingling in his circuits grows stronger, especially as Hoist's warm ventilations caress his exposed components. Optimus grips the berth, cycling a ventilation. His spike throbs and his valve grows slick with lubricant, anticipating whatever Hoist might have in store for him. Today has been a day of surprises, all of them pleasant.   
  
The first swipe of Hoist's glossa makes him tremble. It traces the outer rim of Optimus' valve, igniting every sensor with slow, measured intent. He is glad for the weight of Hoist's grip on his thighs else he would have arched upward, perhaps injuring the smaller mech.   
  
“Someone has not been giving all of his parts fair attention,” Grapple purrs as his hands draw nonsense patterns in the charge rising from Optimus' substructure. Each arc snaps against Grapple's fingers, sharpening the sensation.   
  
Grapple leans over Optimus, their helms brushing together in a lovely kiss of metal on metal that sends reverberations through Optimus' plating. His field ripples in response, warm with rising pleasure.   
  
“For shame, Optimus,” Grapple continues into Optimus' audial, his vocals somehow stirring the desire into a needful lust.   
  
Optimus shivers again.   
  
Hoist's glossa slides deeper, exciting the sensors just within the rim of his valve. Optimus releases a strangled sound, fire flushing through his lines.   
  
Grapple is right. Optimus rarely uses his valve as it is and whilst today it has seen more action than usual, it is nothing quite so dedicated and exploratory. And now, his valve responds as if it has never been touched, each sensor blooming with hot-fire sensation.   
  
Each swipe of Hoist's glossa makes his spark throb and lubricant pool in his valve. He can feel it trickling out, further exciting the sensors. His calipers cycle down on nothing, as though remembering Red Alert's cable and aching to be filled once more. Optimus' hips shifts on the berth, thighs spreading wider in invitation.   
  
Optimus' spike pressurizes, pointing at the ceiling, a dribble of transfluid hanging at the tip. He unwraps a hand from the berth, intent on reaching for himself, only to be intercepted by Grapple.   
  
“Allow me,” Grapple offers, shifting until he can reach Optimus' spike and wrapping his long, agile fingers around the girth of it.   
  
This time, a groan does escape Optimus. His entire frame rattles, releasing a crawling burst of static energy. Hoist's glossa slides deeper, a slick press on his internal nodes that causes electricity to spark within his valve. He squirms, a moan rolling from the depths of his chassis, frame overheating.   
  
Grapple's hand tightens on Optimus' spike, giving him a firm stroke from root to tip. Optimus' hips jutter upward, nearly dislodging Hoist's efforts as he seeks more of the same from Grapple. Transfluid leaks from the tip of his spike and his hand spasms where Grapple's fingers tangle with his.   
  
Optimus' fans burst to life and he sucks in a ventilation, only to blast it out again. Heat courses through his frame. He starts to tremble, thighs shaking, his valve trickling lubricant. Pleasure rises up, swallowing his higher-level thoughts, until all he can think is more, please, yes, yes, yes.   
  
Hoist is happy to oblige his vocal stream of pleasure. Grapple's fingers increase their pace on his spike.   
  
Optimus' hips dance in a rhythm all their own, up into the tunnel of Grapple's fist, and down against the wonderful swipe of Hoist's glossa. Up and then down. Up and then down. He gains his rhythm and loses it again, frame a confused twist seeking the nearest source of pleasure.   
  
Grapple murmurs in his audial, a steady stream of encouragement and desire that shoots straight to Optimus' interface. His spike throbs, his valve clenches on nothing and overload seems to shoot through him like a lightning bolt.   
  
Optimus all but bellows, electric discharge lighting up his frame in blue-white fire as his spike spurts. Lubricant floods his valve, quickly lapped up by Hoist's glossa. Optimus' vents churn at max speed as he collapses onto the berth. His circuits are humming, heat rising from his core.   
  
“There,” says Hoist, his tone both smug and amused before he presses a final kiss to Optimus' valve. “Now isn't that better?”   
  
Grapple laughs.   
  
Optimus chuckles. “Much,” he says and forces his optics to online, though all he wants to do is fall into recharge. “Thank you.”   
  
Hoist pats his thigh plating with a soft ring of metal on metal. “You're welcome. Now recharge.”   
  
“Yes, Prime. Take a nap,” Grapple encourages, unwinding his fingers from Optimus' spike and pulling out a cloth to clean off his hand.   
  
“In the middle of the day?” Optimus arches an orbital ridge.   
  
“What better time?” Hoist pats his knees, fingers lingering over sensitive hydraulic lines. “Medic's orders.”   
  
“Well, in that case...” Optimus shuffles around on the berth, aware of the sticky mess between his thighs and on his pelvic frame. “Though perhaps I could--”  
  
Grapple tosses a cloth to Hoist. “Way ahead of you, sir. Relax. We'll take care of the rest. It's what we're here for.”   
  
Optimus obeys, offlining his optics and surrendering to the sensation of cloth rubbing over his frame. He really could use a short shutdown, he muses to himself. It will be a nice indulgence, much like the rest of his day.   
  
Optimus drifts into recharge, making a mental note to answer the message pinging his inbox as soon as he onlines. But first, a nap.   
  


***


	8. Batteries Not Included

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Eight: Batteries Not Included  
> Characters: SkyfirexPerceptorxBeachcomberxWheeljackxOptimus  
> Enticements: Oral, Sex toys, Sex chair, Sticky, Tactile

Optimus onlines slowly, his HUD reporting no errors, no glitches, and no warnings. In fact, he's registering a state of calm he hasn't felt in months. It's incredible.   
  
Optimus finishes cycling up and tests his limbs to find them completely responsive. He's clean, fully fueled, and firing on all cylinders.   
  
He's also alone.   
  
A sigh flutters from Optimus' vents. Enjoyable, yes, but sharing a berth is also fun when carried to the next morning.   
  
Perhaps next time.   
  
Optimus sits up, hand sliding to brace himself, and nearly knocks down a datapad. He fumbles to catch it before it hits the floor, finger sliding across the screen and activating it. There's a message for him.   
  
He scans the contents, a smile on his lipplates. The science team has extended an invitation for him to preview their newest design in Perceptor's laboratory. This is a wise decision considering the often volatile nature of Wheeljack's workshop.   
  
Optimus is beginning to see a pattern. He's had his suspicions for awhile now, several overloads ago in fact, but now he's more certain. All of this has Jazz's designation written all over it. And since his third-in-command has gone to so much trouble, Optimus will continue to play along.   
  
After all, it's hardly a burden. Oh, the sacrifices he makes.   
  
Optimus chuckles to himself and slides off the berth, pleased to find his cables nice and relaxed and his frame humming with satisfaction. He feels like a new mech, fresh off the assembly line, and it's a welcome sensation.   
  
He leaves the medbay and makes for Perceptor's laboratory, located opposite the Ark from Wheeljack's. As he walks, he checks the messages he had routed to a queue before his brief nap.   
  
There is only one, another gift from Mirage. Either the spy truly enjoys voyeurism or Jazz has assigned him such a duty for the day. Optimus wouldn't be surprised if it were a combination of both: Jazz had ordered and Mirage had eagerly leapt to comply.   
  
He'll have to thank them both then. His growing collection of videos is a wonderful and useful gift.   
  
Jazz is probably getting copies, too, now that Optimus considers it. Jazz wouldn't be one to miss such an opportunity, devious little saboteur that he is.   
  
Optimus shakes his helm, amusement fluttering through his spark. Whatever Jazz's plan, Optimus is not going to complain. He's enjoying himself immensely.   
  
He arrives at Perceptor's laboratory and finds the main door open in obvious invitation. He hears several voices deep in conversation and when he walks in, finds four of his top scientists crowded around a single table.   
  
Skyfire, by virtue of being the tallest, peers over all their helms at whatever it is that has captivated their attention.   
  
Beachcomber is the first to notice Optimus' arrival. “Optimus,” he greets with a grin and a thumbs up and a bounce of his pedes. “Thanks for joining us.”   
  
He holds up the datapad. “You did extend the invitation,” Optimus replies, attempting to peer around Beachcomber but unable to discern what they are working on.   
  
“That we did,” Perceptor agrees with a twitch of his shoulder-mounted scope. “Can we assume that you are willing to be our test subject?”   
  
Judging by the pink gleam of Wheeljack's indicators, Optimus doesn't know if he should be wary or eager. Though Wheeljack assures him that the only time he causes destruction is when he intends to.   
  
Optimus smiles. “I have been putting myself in the capable hands of my Autobots all day. Why should now be any different?”   
  
“Because Wheeljack is involved,” Skyfire jokes, prompting said engineer to roll his optics.   
  
“Yeah, yeah. I'm dangerous,” Wheeljack drawls, stepping away from the table. “Lucky for all of you, that's not the case today.”   
  
Optimus laughs. “For what it's worth, I trust you.”   
  
“He knows we don't mean any harm by it,” Beachcomber says, patting Wheeljack on the hip. “But enough talk, eh, my mechs? Shall we get down to business?”   
  
Agreement ripples through the room, anticipation rising in several fields and amping the atmosphere. Optimus shivers as it is a near-tangible sensation on his plating.   
  
Skyfire, in a testament of his strength, reaches down and lifts the table up and out of the way, revealing the chair that had been resting beneath it. It looks like an ordinary chair, sized for someone like Optimus, Inferno, or Skyfire. It's a bit bulky as though it has storage space both in the arms and beneath it.   
  
Optimus tilts his helm. “Is that the surprise?” he asks, both confused and curious. Is he meant to sit in the chair?  
  
Judging by the way Wheeljack gestures him to it, apparently so. “Yes. And the experiment, too. Still interested?”   
  
Optimus answers by sitting down, shifting to get comfortable and finding that though the chair looks austere, it's surprisingly comfortable. “Is something else meant to happen?” he asks.   
  
Perceptor chuckles, stepping up behind Optimus and running his fingers over Optimus' shoulders. “Yes. In a moment. As soon as everyone gets in position.”   
  
“I've been ready,” says Skyfire, holding up a datapad and a stylus. Apparently, he has been deemed the observer and note-taker for this endeavor.   
  
Wheeljack holds up a hand-held controller for whatever device Optimus has blindly planted himself upon. “Ready on my end.”   
  
Beachcomber stands in front of Optimus, putting them at optic-level now that Optimus is seated. “Just give me a signal,” he says with an impish tone and a wink of his visor. “I promise you'll enjoy yourself, sir. At least, that is our intention.”   
  
“I have every faith in you,” Optimus says, making optic contact with every one of his scientists to prove his honesty.   
  
“I am happy to hear that,” says Perceptor from behind Optimus, perhaps the director of this venture.   
  
There is a soft click, barely audible, and it's followed by a clunk. Optimus looks around in confusion as the chair begins to thrum beneath him. The arms rattle and the next thing Optimus knows, cuffs emerge from the chair, trapping his wrists and ankles and pinning him to the chair. He tests the strength of them and is even more surprised to find that they are stasis cuffs, making both his arms and legs non-responsive.   
  
“Well,” Skyfire says brightly, his stylus scratching across the datapad. “Stage one is a success.”   
  
Beachcomber lowers himself to his knees in front of Optimus, nudging between Optimus' knees. “You all right?” he asks, patting Optimus' upper thighs.   
  
“Just fine,” Optimus reassures them, curiosity stronger than any apprehension. “What's next?”   
  
“Manual stimulation,” Perceptor answers, his long fingers tickling at the base of Optimus' helm and the sensitive transformation seams in his chassis.   
  
The entire chair vibrates in a rolling rhythm, which is promptly followed by a wave of static that makes Optimus tingle. At the same moment, Beachcomber leans forward and laps at Optimus' spike cover with his glossa.   
  
Optimus jolts, spike surging behind the cover, slowly pressurizing.   
  
The chair continues to vibrate and shower him with static in alternating intervals, activating his sensor net and dragging him toward arousal. Not that he has far to go.   
  
Optimus shivers. “And then?” he asks, forcing out the question whilst attempting to remain clinical but finding it impossible. Beachcomber's glossa leaves a wet stripe in its wake and Optimus' spike throbs impatiently.   
  
“Oral incentive,” Beachcomber answers, looking up at Optimus with a wicked gleam to his visor. He keeps Optimus' gaze, leaving forward to lave a circle around his spike cover.   
  
Optimus jutters in his seat, though his pinned limbs make it impossible for him to move.   
  
The whole experience is kicked up another notch when the back of the chair pulses with magnetics, stimulating every sensor beneath his back plating. It relaxes his cables, spreading a subtle warmth through his frame. He cycles a ventilation as pleasure suffuses his entire sensor net.   
  
“Which is of course followed by verbal encouragement,” Skyfire rumbles, the weight of his gaze as arousing as everything else.   
  
“By which he means, please open your panels so that we may move on to the next stage,” Wheeljack says, holding up the controller, his thumbs hovering over some kind of button.   
  
Optimus eyes it warily but he complies. Fortunately, his spike has no such qualms about Wheeljack's device. It pressurizes eagerly, straining toward the temptation of Beachcomber's mouth.   
  
Beachcomber wastes no time leaning forward and drawing Optimus into his mouth. Optimus moans as the glossa laps the head of his spike, probing at the transfluid channel as though eager to taste his release. Optimus' hips strain forward with as much freedom as the chair will grant him, his spike pulsing with need. Beachcomber's mouth is warm and wet, his glossa mapping every micron of Optimus' spike with unhurried motions.   
  
“I'd say stage two is a success,” Skyfire says from above them, his voice oddly detached but his energy field giving away the arousal that's making his fans spin. “Shall we move on?”   
  
Wheeljack's indicators light up with a bright burst of orange. “Initiating stage three,” he says with an almost mischievous tone, fingers dancing over the controls.   
  
Optimus doesn't have longer than a second to be wary before the entire share gives a shudder. He hears a click and the sound of shifting gears before something nudges against his aft and valve. It's warm and wet; he can feel the slide of lubricant. It pushes gamely against his panel, insistent but not enough to force the issue.   
  
“We're working on something that will allow the system to prompt its users into an automatic retraction,” Perceptor purrs into his audial, hands still exploring the landscape of Optimus' shoulders. “But for now, we must ask that you open for us.”   
  
He needn't have asked, Optimus thinks, the pleasure coursing through his internals more than enough to prompt his valve panel to spring open. Beachcomber takes his spike deeper, the head of it nudging the back of the minibot's intake, just as whatever is beneath Optimus slowly eases into his valve.   
  
It's warm, he realizes. Warm and humming with a subtle vibration. It inches into his valve and grows larger as it does, as though aiming to fill every micron within him, alight every sensor. Optimus sucks in a ventilation, thighs trembling and feeling the rhythmic clenching of his valve as it struggles to both clench and relax around the intruder.   
  
The slow burn of desire in his circuits becomes an outright inferno. His entire frame tingles, that which he can still feel anyway, and there's a sharp coil of need within his internals. He twitches within the bonds of the chair, eager to move but just as eager not to lose the wet swipe of Beachcomber's mouth and the steady pressure of whatever is filling up his valve.   
  
“Is that all?” Optimus asks, trying to sound as though he's not at all affected by the rising charge and the dancing heat and Beachcomber's glossa and the delicious pressure of whatever is filling his valve to maximum capacity and then some.   
  
Perceptor hums a non-committal note into his audial. “Two more stages,” he answers. “Stage four begins as soon as stage three ends.”   
  
His calipers flutter around the mass in his valve, which is both solid but also has some give to it, like a fluid-filled sac. “Ends?” he asks, and then sucks in another ventilation as the item within his valve reaches the apex, putting a solid pressure on his retral node and sending a shock of pleasure through his systems. A moan rises in his chassis, spilling out before he can stop it.   
  
Beachcomber releases his spike with a noisy slurp, looking up at Prime with a cheeky grin. “You'll like this part,” he says, hands kneading a soft pleasure over Optimus' thighs. “It was Wheeljack's idea.”   
  
“Though I came up with the original mechanism,” Perceptor says.   
  
“I designed the housing structure,” Skyfire adds.   
  
“While I calculated the mass and density of the fluid,” Beachcomber finishes for them, and leans forward to swallow Optimus' spike to the hilt.   
  
The sound that comes from Optimus' vocalizer lacks definition. His hips jerk forward, toward Beachcomber's mouth, his spike throbbing in a way distinctive of oncoming overload. Static rises from his substructure, spilling out over his plating, and he hears the click-whirr of something else activating.   
  
“That would be stage four,” Wheeljack says, and this time his indicators are pink, his vocals rough to the same tune as his frenetic energy field. They are, none of them, managing to be completely apathetic.   
  
All four of the scientists are aroused. Optimus can feel it in their fields, the way the mingled energies tingle as they caress his plating and burrow deeper, driving his own need to a higher plateau.   
  
Then stage four kicks in and Optimus gropes for words to describe it, his higher-level processing stuttering to a halt. The item within his valve, a false-spike of some sort, begins to undulate. Whatever fluid within it shifts, moving up and down, in mimicry of a thrust but stimulating every sensor as it pushes on the walls of his valve.   
  
Optimus shouts, writhing in the confines of the chair, his spike pulsing copious amounts of pre-transfluid into Beachcomber's mouth. He can feel the overload rising in him, a tidal wave of pleasure that refuses to be contained. He can't focus on anything but the rhythmic wave of motion in his valve and Beachcomber's glossa swirling round and round the head of his spike.   
  
The item continues to undulate, picking up the rhythm, flicking across his retral node and drawing static from his valve. Optimus all but whimpers, optics shuttering as he throws his helm back, drawing in desperate ventilations. He can feel the lubricant squeezing from his valve around the intrusion, pooling on the chair beneath him. He can feel every flick of Beachcomber's glossa, the barely-there nip of denta against sensitive metal, and the bump of his spike against Beachcomber's intake.   
  
The sound of a half-dozen cooling fans rushes through his audials. Energy fields batter at him from all directions, tingling down to his substructure with outright lust. He writhes within his chair, hips juttering, and when overload strikes, it seems to make him jerk from helm to pede, despite the stasis-like cuffs. He groans, spilling into Beachcomber's mouth and clenching down on the rolling false-spike all at once.   
  
Optimus slumps, fans whirring and sounding a bit stuttered as they've been put to work all day today.   
  
“I think we skipped stage five,” Skyfire says, but he sounds more amused than disappointed.   
  
Optimus forces his optics to unshutter, meeting Beachcomber's visor which gleams with satisfaction. “There are more stages?” he asks, his frame so hot that he can practically see heat mirages rising from it. He doesn't know if he has it in him for more stages.   
  
“Seven, to be precise,” Perceptor answers brightly, his hands landing on Optimus' shoulders and fluttering over the armor panels. “Though we are still speculating on the details of the others. This is only a prototype after all and the first.”  
  
Somehow, he's more than a little amused that his staff of scientists have decided to fill their time by designing a sex toy of sorts. He's pleased, however, not only by the toy, but also that they have the time for frivolous pursuits. He likes to think it means there is more to their existence than this endless war.   
  
“We still have some satisfactory results,” Skyfire says, wings twitching in earnest. “This is all very good data. Thank you, Optimus.”   
  
He manages a tired chuckle. “I get the feeling I should be thanking you,” he says, and squirms in his chair. The item is still within his valve, no longer moving, but still full and pressing on every over-sensitized node.   
  
Beachcomber pats him on the knee. “Jack, you might want to reset the system. I believe Optimus is in some discomfort.”   
  
“Primus! I'm sorry!” Wheeljack's indicators flash an apologetic flurry of colors as his fingers fly over the controller and something within the chair clicks and whirrs.   
  
Immediately, the false-spike begins to depressurize, much faster than it had filled with fluid and Optimus can feel it descending from his valve, more lubricant leaking out around it. The cuffs also disengage and his extremities tingle as his processor starts sending out commands for movement once again.   
  
Optimus wriggles his fingers and his pedes, though a part of him feels the need for another brief nap. Is it because of the day's multiple overloads? Never has he subjected his frame to so much pleasure in such a short period of time. Not that he's complaining! It's been like a vacation and Optimus can't remember the last time he experienced one of those either.   
  
“Thank you, Wheeljack,” Optimus says. “Can I get up now or is there more?”   
  
Beachcomber pushes himself to his pedes and grins. “Eager for another round?”   
  
“It was enjoyable,” Optimus replies, trying to sound pragmatic but he's not entirely unaffected by the lingering desire in the room. Four energy fields are still buzzing with need, and though his scientists hide it well, he can see Skyfire's wings twitching, and Wheeljack's winglets quivering and the bright burn of Beachcomber's optics. He can also hear the soft purr of Perceptor's cooling fans behind him.   
  
He pushes himself up, ignoring the mess he leaves on the chair behind him, his panels sliding shut with a tired whirr. “Though perhaps one of you might partake in your own design. Do you not need a larger sample size?”   
  
Beachcomber laughs. “Aren't they cute when they talk science?”   
  
Wheeljack tilts his helm, looking thoughtful. “Well, he does have a point. Different systems respond in different ways.” His indicators lit up with a bright yellow. “I volunteer to be a test subject.”   
  
“Of course you do,” Perceptor says, humor rich in his tone. “Shall I operate the controller then?”   
  
“If Beachcomber agrees to take notes, then I will happily serve as the oral encouragement,” Skyfire says, optics brightening further.   
  
“So long as I can be the next volunteer than I don't mind,” Beachcomber says, bouncing on his pedes.   
  
“Agreed,” says Perceptor and Optimus watches as they shuffle around, exchanging datapads and positions and equipment and he swears it's as though he's completely forgotten he's there.  
  
Wheeljack starts chattering about adjusting the size of the chair and Beachcomber procures a cloth from somewhere to give it a quick wipe-down and Perceptor fiddles with the controller muttering something about making it more user-friendly and Skyfire hovers over all of them making unhelpful remarks.   
  
Optimus shuffles off to the side, trying to stay out of the way, until Skyfire tumbles a recorder into his hands and Optimus finds himself the unofficial video-taker.   
  
Well.   
  
Optimus grins and fiddles with the recorder, familiarizing himself with the operation of it. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it right.   
  
Besides, it's nice to be included in something that isn't a war brief or strategy meeting or post-battle debrief.   
  
Wheeljack hops into the chair with a little wiggle of excitement and Optimus feels his own field flare with the memories of just how good that chair feels.   
  
This is going to be interesting.   
  


****


	9. Chain of Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Nine: Chain of Command  
> Characters: ProwlxIronhidexRatchetxJazzxOptimus  
> Enticements: Sticky, Tactile, PNP, Spark, Double Penetration, Blindfolds

It is an exhausted but satisfied Optimus who finally stumbles out of Perceptor's laboratory hours later, several copies of their “research” in his memory banks and more than a few blown circuits. Oh, they'll self-repair over night so there is no need to go to Ratchet to get them replaced, but he's feeling the strain of so many overloads in such a short period of time.   
  
He leaves most of his scientific staff in a sated heap of heated plating around their wildly successful new invention and makes for his personal quarters. It's early yet, but according to Red Alert and nearly every other mech he's run into today, Optimus is on leave. Therefore, if he wants to retire early and get more recharge than he's had in years, then by Primus, he can.   
  
He swings by the refueling station for some energon, noticing that the Ark is finally occupied again when it had been oddly empty earlier. He passes Smokescreen and Bluestreak in the halls, who grin at him and jostle each other with their elbows. There's a small gang of minibots in the corner of the rec room and Tracks and Sunstreaker are in some sort of heated debate in another corner. Hound and Mirage and Blaster are playing a card game at one table.   
  
Optimus is greeted with a chorus of waves and smiles and no one seems the least bit affected by what's happened over the course of the day. It's as though Optimus dreamed the whole thing, and he's just now waking from it.   
  
Odd.   
  
He does notice, however, that several bots have yet to make an appearance. Most notably, with the exception of Jazz, his command staff.   
  
Even more curious.   
  
Optimus gathers a cube of energon in peace, bids a farewell to his Autobots, and heads back to his quarters. He briefly contemplates taking a drive to enjoy the countryside, but honestly, that sounds like effort he's not willing to expend. Perhaps another time. He thinks of the datapads at his berthside, that he hasn't touched in months because he's always had work to do, and wonders if now might be the time to finally finish that story.   
  
The command hall is silent as Optimus arrives at his door and keys it open, stepping inside as he sips on his energon.   
  
He comes to a startled halt in the doorway to find that his quarters are already occupied. Prowl is perched in the chair at his desk, browsing a datapad, while Ratchet and Ironhide are sprawled on his berth.   
  
Well, that explains where his command staff has disappeared to.   
  
Optimus opens his mouth to speak when a light shove from behind pushes him further into the room. The door shuts behind him and before he can turn to look, Jazz steps into view, grinning cheekily.   
  
He should have known.   
  
“Have you been hiding here all day?” Optimus asks as he gains the attention of his senior command staff.   
  
“Not hiding,” Prowl corrects, switching off the datapad and laying it aside, his doorwings twitching with something like mischief as he stands. “Waiting.”   
  
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “For?”   
  
“You, ya dimwit,” Ratchet says with a huff, rolling his optics. “What? Did you really think we'd all decided to take a day off at once?”   
  
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Optimus admits, only to look at Jazz with suspicion. “Though as the day wore on, I began to suspect something of a different nature was occurring.”   
  
Jazz rocks on his pedes. “I have no idea to what you are referring.” His grin completely belies his projected innocence.   
  
“So says the mech who's made sure to have two turns,” Ironhide says with a pointed look at Jazz who doesn't look the least bit contrite about it.   
  
“Can you blame me?” Jazz asks.   
  
“All the time,” Ratchet drawls and pats the berth as Ironhide shifts aside, making room between them. “Come on, Optimus. We saved you a spot.”   
  
Amused, Optimus crosses the floor and takes them up on the invitation. “I don't think my berth is big enough for the three of us.”   
  
“We'll make do,” Ironhide says. “You can bet Prowl's already worked out the logistics in that tactical helm of his.”   
  
Prowl huffs. “You talk about tactics as though they are something to be disdained. Not every matter can be solved with a blaster, Ironhide.”   
  
“Ah, ah, my mechs,” Jazz says, dancing his way between the two, who sometimes find themselves at odds. “We all have our parts to play and rehashing old arguments ain't part of it.”   
  
“Parts?” Optimus asks as he watches Prowl and Ironhide grumble something like an apology and redirect their attention to Optimus. Not that the discussion has been forgotten. Optimus knows it has only been temporarily pushed aside.   
  
“We originally had a plan,” Ratchet says, leaning against Optimus and sharing field harmonics. “Then we realized you might have your own idea of what you want so we thought we'd ask.”   
  
Optimus raises his orbital ridges. “What I want,” he repeats, optics skipping from one mech to another. “It's hard to imagine I might need anything else after today.”   
  
Jazz grins, sliding up to Optimus and bullying his way between Optimus' knees. “Let's make it easy then,” he says, hands sliding up Optimus' thighs in a slow, sensual motion. “We'll start with touch.”   
  
Optimus' engine rumbles. “That sounds like a workable tactic. Don't you agree, Prowl?”   
  
The Praxian jerks his helm in a nod, crossing the floor to close the distance between himself and the berth, making Optimus surrounded by his command staff and all the happier for it. “Divide and conquer is always an option as well,” he says.   
  
“I approve of that,” Ironhide says, shifting on the berth to cup a hand around Optimus' helm and draw him into a deep, lusty kiss.   
  
It becomes a blur after that. Four pairs of hands descend upon him, and only by concentrating can he really tell who's doing what. And concentrating is the last thing he wants to do right now. It's nice, Optimus thinks, to drown in pleasure.   
  
Someone's hands stroke his armor. Someone else teases his interface panels, feeling the heat behind them. Ironhide never lets up his demanding kiss and Optimus is keen on letting him, moaning into the slick glossa. The berth rumbles and creaks beneath their combined engines and weight.   
  
Optimus feels himself being bore down to the berth, but someone is behind him, cradling his weight. He suspects Ratchet given the size of the mech, but the energy fields pressing down on him are dizzying. Again, with concentration, he can pick them apart. But why bother when all four are pulsing the same thing: affection, desire, lust, pleasure.   
  
A mouth attacks his audials, his antennae and Optimus moans, sensor net bursting with pleasure. He pushes back against Ratchet, feeling the slide of fine-tuned medic's hands over his armor, followed by a magnetic pulse that sets his sensors alight. He writhes, trapped between Ratchet's bulk and Ironhide's mouth and someone's hands on his abdomen and between his thighs, stroking his interface panel.   
  
Fingers tickle at his lateral seams, tracing the contours of the panel guarding his lateral port. Skill and knowledge manually pops the panel and the fingers pause, as though waiting for Optimus to protest, before a plug is introduced, clicking home with a processor-surging pleasure. This, Optimus recognizes, is definitely Ratchet. There's no confusing the confident trickle of the medic's awareness, and the wave of arousal Ratchet brings with him.   
  
Optimus' engine purrs with delight as a second hand teases his left lateral seam, silently requesting access that Optimus is eager to grant. The connecting cable identifies his second partner as Prowl, who digitally requests permission before sliding into Optimus' systems alongside Ratchet.   
  
Their desire runs parallel, simmering the pleasure to a slow burn, and Optimus rumbles his approval. He reaches out to them with his own sense of self, trading pleasure wave for wave, feeling the static erupt from his substructure and dance across his armor.   
  
Ironhide's mouth leaves his, trailing down to nip at his throat. The hand at Optimus' panel strokes more firmly, fingers deftly stroking him until his panels pop and his spike pressurizes eagerly while his valve bares itself to a warm waft of air. Optimus shivers as fingers take advantage, pressing into him at once, sliding through lubricant and caressing the sensors at the inner rim of his valve.   
  
He sucks in a startled ventilation, arching between the frames surrounding him, feeling Ratchet's amusement and Prowl's appreciation across the link.   
  
A third finger joins the two and then a fourth, pumping into his valve with an audible squelch of lubricant. Someone else's hand wraps around his spike, giving it a long, slow pull and Optimus hums his pleasure. His optics flicker, unsure whether to stay lit or not, until he offlines them in total deference to the affections of his command staff.   
  
The berth trembles as Ironhide's mouth vanishes from his throat column. Optimus whimpers the loss as the fingers disappear from his valve as well. But then hands smooth down his legs, a frame nudges between his thighs, and Optimus cants his hips upward in expectation. A spike slides into his valve, ribbed around the circumference and raking across every sensor in the lining.   
  
Optimus moans, frame arching, hands reaching out to drag his partner closer. His fingers scrabble over battle-grade armor and he just knows that it is Ironhide pushing into his valve, teasing him with the slow, steady thrust. He hears a low-rumbling laugh of appreciation before Ironhide's mouth covers his again, muffling his cries of pleasure.   
  
Amusement draws his attention to Ratchet, followed by the surge of lust across their connection. Optimus traces the desire and whimpers as a stream of images attacks his cortex with a bright burst of lust. He feels Ratchet rock against his aft, spike sliding along his plating and leaving a streak of lubricant behind as the dizzying scenes coalesce into one clear and attractive proposal.   
  
Optimus' internals squirm with want. His valve clenches down on Ironhide's, already imagining the stretch of a second spike, and Ratchet's arousal pours down the link. A surge of need comes from Prowl, who in true Prowl-fashion, attaches an action plan for how they all can go about accommodating each other.   
  
Optimus would be amused if he wasn't so focused on the pleasure making him tremble from helm to pede. He knows Ratchet is behind him and Ironhide in front of him and Prowl to his left, and he knows Jazz is somewhere because the bright spark of his field is tangible against Optimus' own.   
  
And there are hands on his hips, probably Ratchet's, and the teasing brush of a spike against the rim of his valve. Ratchet's spike slides against Ironhide's, prompting an engine rev and Optimus tilts his hips in encouragement. Then there are more hands, adjusting, turning, lifting one of his legs, opening him further.   
  
Ironhide's spike vanishes and Optimus mourns the loss, but then the blunt pressure of two spikes appears at his valve. Optimus' ventilations hitch, heat blasting from his frame as they start to push in together, stretching the calipers of his valve and causing every sensor to fire with stimulation.   
  
Optimus reaches out, needing something to ground himself, and gets a hold of Prowl's shoulder with his left hand and what is probably Ironhide's hand with his right. He cycles his optics, intending to online them, but then a hand lands over his face, shielding his optics.   
  
“None of that now,” Ratchet says, right into his audial, more a purr than a chastisement.   
“Focus on the pleasure, Prime. Nothing else.”   
  
“Unless you have a better idea for what you want,” Ironhide adds, giving Optimus' hand a quick squeeze. “In which case, speak up. We'd love to hear it.”   
  
“This is, after all, for your benefit,” Prowl says. “You are welcome to voice your desires.”   
  
“And if you don't, we'll just keep on doin' what we're doin' until you offline from the pleasure,” Jazz drawls and the hand that drags down Optimus' chestplate and abdomen has to belong to the saboteur.   
  
“Sounds good to me,” Optimus gasps out as another trill of pleasure dances through his sensor net and the spikes in his valve stretch him to the point of fullness that edges pain and settles into pure bliss.   
  
Amusement rumbles across the link and Ratchet feels like a furnace against his back. Prowl's presence dances through their link and it's like he's touching Optimus from the inside, lighting up his sensors. Charge crackles out from Optimus' substructure and he's sure it is coursing over his armor, not that he can see it.   
  
The presence in his valve shifts, a minute inch but utterly tangible. Optimus moans as his sensor net spark to life, feeling the two spikes move in bare counterpoint. It's a slow and steady pace that feels designed to ignite a fire inside of him. It's working.   
  
His vents open full bore, pouring heat into the room. His exterior sensors register a definite increase in the ambient temperature in the room, which is almost amusing to Optimus.   
  
Pleasure blurs again, to the point where Optimus can't decide which grabs his attention more. The spikes in his valve, shifting slow and slow, lubricant leaking out and soaking everything beneath him. Or the two systems connected to his, sending a steady stream of arousal and desire and erotic images that titillate the senses. Or the agile fingers tracing his seams and stroking the heated wires beneath. Or Ratchet rumbling at his back, sending the vibrations all the way through Optimus' frame.   
  
And then the berth rattles, sending an ominous groan echoing through his quarters. Prowl's exasperation translates across the link and a chorus of sighs announce a singular perpetrator.   
  
Jazz.   
  
“Share and share alike, my mechs,” the saboteur says with what is perhaps one of his trademark smiles and flash of his visor.   
  
A weight settles on Optimus' chassis, hands sliding up his abdominal armor and over his windshields before hooking on his shoulders.   
  
The berth creaks a little louder. Optimus wonders if it will hold up under the weight. Otherwise they might all receive a rather abrupt distraction.   
  
“Lucky you're so big,” Jazz says with a little laugh, his hips twitching atop Optimus' with a lovely skreel of metal on metal. “Otherwise, this might be awkward.”   
  
“You mean it's not already?” Ironhide grumbles, his hand releasing Optimus' and relocating to Optimus' hip. His spike has slipped from Optimus' valve but with another creak of the berth, it slides snugly back into place, notching alongside Ratchet's. Surely the medic must feel a little compressed right now, but he's not complaining.   
  
“You're worse than the twins, I swear to Primus,” Prowl says.   
  
“I suppose I'll take that as a compliment,” Jazz retorts and Optimus feels his weight shift before hot armor lays against his front. He can feel the humming of Jazz's frame, trembling with need before Jazz presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Want your spark. Do you mind?”   
  
Optimus' answer is to crack his chestplates, the first tendrils of his spark already reaching out in need. Of all the affection he's received today, no one's asked for his spark and he's been aching for it. The physical pleasure is wonderful and processor-blowing and relaxing, but the intimacy of a spark merge is a craving that can't be sated by his spike and valve.   
  
He wraps his one free arm around Jazz's back, keeping the mech's chest armor pressed to his own. “Please,” Optimus says and there's no denying the need in his vocals or the charge licking across his armor.   
  
Ratchet shudders behind him and he can feel Prowl's arousal cycling higher. Ironhide's spike is a fierce throb in his valve, and Optimus' own spike pulses in its housing. He sees no reason for restraint and lets it free, moaning as fingers instantly encircle his spike, giving him a squeeze.   
  
Optimus writhes on the berth, in as much space as is available to him, hearing the berth creak and groan, but hold up. Props to Grapple, he thinks.   
  
And then he hears the distinct click-shift of another chestplate sliding aside and the first answering tendrils of Jazz's spark brushes against his own. Optimus gasps, chassis pushing upward, seeking more of Jazz's spark and keening when he gets it. Sound rushes through his audials and with Ratchet's hand keeping him blind, he can't do anything but focus on the pleasure. The throb of Jazz's spark against his own, the teasing brush of each spark tendril and the charge that licks between them, bouncing back and forth and lighting up his sensor net with pleasure.   
  
His arm wraps around Jazz, crushing the saboteur against him. He can feel his own armor rattling, the heat rising from his frame in blasting vents, his valve cycling down tight against the two spikes. Overload builds within him, swelling higher and tighter as Jazz's spark dances against his. Optimus' engine rumbles, his thighs trembling around Ironhide, charge spilling across his cables, and something that can best be described as a wail erupting from his vocalizer.  
  
Overload strikes him hard, roaring through his systems, surging in his spark until it feels too large for it's chamber, erupting in a wave of charge that spills over his frame and into his partners. Optimus shakes and moans, now both arms tightening around Jazz, his spark flaring and dragging Jazz into overload with him. The burst of several energy fields reassures him that he's pulling the others into overload as well and the pleasure that realization brings dances through Optimus' processor.   
  
It's the last thing he registers before exhaustion takes control and his frame, still humming from the powerful overload, slides into the blissful grey of recharge. For once, Optimus goes under willingly.   
  
Ratchet would be so proud of him.  
  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Ten is a short, follow-up epilogue that explains just why Optimus got the good lovin' today. Not that the Autobots really need a reason. ;)


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus wakes the next morning and this time, he's not alone.

Optimus onlines slowly, his systems booting with a languid ease that suggests he's very, very relaxed. There's a languor in his frame, a willingness to linger in his berth and continue to enjoy the memories.   
  
He unshutters his optics, fully expecting to find himself alone, and is pleasantly surprised to find that one of his berth partners had chosen to stay. He should have known.   
  
“Mornin',” Jazz drawls from where he's perched quite cheekily on Optimus' chassis, his hands folded under his chin. “Recharge well?”   
  
Optimus cycles a long ventilation, arms rising up to wrap around his third in command. He tilts, tipping them onto their sides, so he can snuggle Jazz better and is relieved when the notorious saboteur doesn't try to squirm away. It can be hit or miss with Jazz sometimes. Confinement can be a touchy subject unless taken in small doses.   
  
“I'll take that as a yes,” Jazz says with a laugh, shifting to get comfortable but otherwise not protesting.   
  
Optimus shutters his optics, content to lie there. “I know that I have you to thank for yesterday.”   
  
“Guilty as charged.” Jazz's field pushes against his, warm with affection. “It was Boss Appreciation Day, you know.”   
  
Optimus onlines his optics. “What?”   
  
“A human thing. I thought it was a good excuse.” Jazz laughs, arm sliding over Optimus' side and pulling him closer. “Not that we needed one. And you deserve it, too.”   
  
That's debatable but Optimus has learned not to contradict Jazz when it comes to his own accomplishments and faults.   
  
“How on Earth did you convince everyone to participate?” he asks.   
  
Jazz laughs again, amusement rich in his tone. “I didn't have to convince anyone. I'd barely made the suggestion before everyone argued over who was going to do what and when and how.” He reaches up, tapping Optimus' chestplate. “We love ya, boss. Haven't you figured that out yet?”   
  
“I am learning to recognize it,” Optimus says, pressing his forehelm against Jazz's. “And I strive to be worthy of that affection every day.”   
  
Jazz's field pulses warmth at him. “That's why we love ya, boss. I might be willin' to admit that I have my fair share of affection, too.”   
  
Optimus smiles. “So I gathered. I admit I hold affection for you as well.”   
  
“Of course you do. I'm just that lovable.” Jazz tips his helm back and grins.   
  
“That you are.” Optimus chuckles. “I am curious. Did you ask Mirage to follow me around and record everyone or did he make that choice himself?”   
  
Jazz's visor brightens with amusement. “He did it himself.” His grin widens. “Tell me he sent you copies.”   
  
“Of all but last night with the four of you,” Optimus says, unable to hide his smug tone. Of course, that is when his inbox chooses to chime at him, and a quick peek reveals the waiting message and attached video. “Wait. I stand corrected. Yes, the entire day.”   
  
Jazz's field vibrates with curiosity. “Sneaky noble. Are you going to share the goods or am I going to have to beg?”   
  
“I do like the sound of you begging,” Optimus teases, rolling so that he blankets Jazz's body with his own, feeling the heat rising from Jazz's frame in slow curls. He nudges a knee between Jazz's, one hand toying with the saboteur's chestplate and bumper.   
  
Jazz's engine rumbles a soft purr. “A bargain then?” he says, one leg rising to slide along the outside of Optimus', a burr of metal on metal. “One overload per video?”   
  
“You'll keep me in the berth all morning at that rate,” Optimus replies, dipping down to steal a kiss from his third-in-command. Their glossas meet with a brief flash of static and a moan rises in his chassis.   
  
“I'm failing to see where that's a bad thing,” Jazz says around the kiss, hands rising to sweep over Optimus' chestplate, dipping into the seam between windshields.   
  
“You wouldn't,” Optimus retorts and then says nothing else as he busies his mouth with sucking on Jazz's sensory horns, making the smaller mech writhe and moan beneath him.   
  
He supposes he'll have to emerge from his quarters eventually. He can't take two days off after all. But if there's one thing yesterday taught him, it's that it is all right to indulge every once in a while.   
  
All of his Autobots deserve every second of his gratitude. Jazz, especially. And Optimus is going to prove it.   
  


****


End file.
